!  •  I 


UCSJ 


67. 


PIECES  FOR  t  t  1 1 
PRIZE-SPEAKING 
CONTESTS  t  s  t  t 


A  collection  of  over  one  hun  • 
dred  pieces  which  have  taken 
prizes  in  prize-speaking  contests. 
Cloth,  448  oages.  Price,  $1.25, 


PUBLISHED    BY 

HINDS  &  NOBLE 

4^5-6-12-13-H  Cocpcr  Institute,  New  York  Gib 


THREE  MINUTE  READINGS 

FOR 

COLLEGE  GIRLS 


SELECTED   AND   EDITED 

BY 

HARRY  CASSELL  DAVIS,  A.  M.,  PH.  D. 


WITH  CLASSIFIED  INDEX  AND  INDEX  TO  AUTHORS 


"  Eloquence  is  the  noble,  the  harmonious,  the  passionate  expression  of 
truths  profoundly  realized  or  of  emotions  intensely  felt." — FAKRAR, 
Seekers  After  God. 


Copyright,  i&)7,  by  Hinds  &*  Noble 


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PREFACE. 

THE  author  has  endeavored  to  prepare  a  book 
of  new  selections  for  speaking  and  reading, 
adapted  largely  but  not  exclusively  for  girls  in  our 
schools,  academies,  and  colleges. 

Freshness,  brevity,  variety,  literary  quality,  and 
adaptability  were  important  elements  in  determin- 
ing the  choice  of  selections. 

Committing  to  memory  and  publicly  reciting 
patriotic  thoughts  are  valuable  aids  in  keeping  the 
sacred  fire  of  patriotism  burning  on  our  altars. 
Therefore  a  large  number  of  patriotic  pieces  will 
be  found  in  this  collection,  commemorating  impor- 
tant epochs  in  our  national  history. 

The  women  of  our  country  who  are  so  nobly  per- 
forming their  part  in  all  reform  movements  in  this 
age  of  reforms,  and  upon  whose  brows  the  century 
has  placed  the  crowns  of  illustrious  achievement, 
are  represented  by  some  choice  extracts  of  tongue 
and  pen. 

The  classified  index  will  be  found  useful  in  decid- 
ing upon  selections  appropriate  to  the  seasons  and 
to  the  various  holiday  occasions. 

The  courtesy  of  those  who  have  responded  so 
generously  to  the  request  for  permission  to  use 


IV  PREFACE. 

selections  from  their  speeches  and  writings,  and  of 
those  teachers  who  have  made  valuable  sugges- 
tions, is  gratefully  acknowledged.  The  co-opera- 
tion of  the  various  publishers  in  consenting  to  the 
use  of  their  publications,  without  which  a  book  of 
this  kind  is  impossible,  has  been  most  kindly  and 
heartily  given. 

HARRY  HILLMAN  ACADEMY, 

WILKES  BARRE,  PA.,  June,  1897. 


THREE  MINUTE  READINGS   FOR 
COLLEGE   GIRLS. 


THE   MINUET. 

By  MARY  MAPES  DODGE,  Poet,  Editor.  B.  1838,  New 
York  City.  Mrs.  Dodge  is  the  conductor  of  the  S/.  Nicho- 
las magazine. 

GRANDMA  told  me  all  about  it, 
Told  me  so  I  couldn't  doubt  it, 
How  she  danced — my  Grandma  danced! — 

Long  ago. 

How  she  held  her  pretty  head, 
How  her  dainty  skirt  she  spread, 
Turning  out  her  little  toes; 
How  she  slowly  leaned  and  rose — 

Long  ago. 

Grandma's  hair  was  bright  and  sunny; 
Dimpled  cheeks,  too — ah,  how  funny! 
Really  quite  a  pretty  girl, 

Long  ago. 

Bless  her!  why,  she  wears  a  cap, 
Grandma  does,  and  takes  a  nap 
Every  single  day;  and  yet 
Grandma  danced  the  minuet 

Long  ago. 


THE  MINUET. 

Now  she  sits  there,  rocking,  rocking, 
Always  knitting  Grandpa's  stocking — 
(Every  girl  was  taught  to  knit 

Long  ago). 

Yet  her  figure  is  so  neat, 
And  her  ways  so  staid  and  sweet, 
I  can  almost  see  her  now 
Bending  to  her  partner's  bow, 

Long  ago. 

Grandma  says  our  modern  jumping, 
Hopping,  rushing,  whirling,  bumping, 
Would  have  shocked  the  gentle  folk 

Long  ago. 

No — they  moved  with  stately  grace, 
Everything  in  proper  place, 
Gliding  slowly  forward,  then 
Slowly  courtesying  back  again, 

Long  ago. 

Modern  ways  are  quite  alarming, 
Grandma  says;  but  boys  were  charming- 
Girls  and  boys,  I  mean,  of  course — 

Long  ago. 

Brave  but  modest,  grandly  shy, — 
She  would  like  to  have  us  try 
Just  to  feel  like  those  who  met 
In  the  graceful  minuet 

Long  ago. 

Were  the  minuet  in  fashion, 
Who  could  fly  into  a  passion? 


TOPSY. 

All  would  wear  the  calm  they  wore 

Long  ago. 

In  time  to  come,  if  I,  perchance, 
Should  tell  my  grandchild  of  our  dance, 
I  should  really  like  to  say: 
•"  We  did  it,  dear,  in  some  such  way, 

Long  ago." 


TOPSY. 

By  HARRIET  ELIZABETH  BEECHER  STOWE,  Author.  B. 
1812,  Connecticut  ;  d.  1896.  This  extract  is  from  "  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin,"  which  was  first  published  as  a  serial  in  the 
National  Era  and  appeared  first  in  book  form  in  1852. 

ONE  morning,  while  Miss  Ophelia  was  busy  in 
some  of  her  domestic  cares,  St.  Clare's  voice  was 
heard,  calling  her  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"Come  down  here,  cousin;  I've  something  to 
show  you." 

"  What  is  it?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  coming  down, 
with  her  sewing  in  her  hand. 

"  I've  made  a  purchase  for  your  department — 
see  here,"  said  St.  Clare;  and,  with  the  word,  he 
pulled  along  a  little  negro  girl,  about  eight  or  nine 
years  of  age. 

She  was  one  of  the  blackest  of  her  race ;  and  her 
round,  shining  eyes,  glittering  as  glass  beads, 
moved  with  quick  and  restless  glances  over  every- 
thing in  the  room.  Her  mouth,  half  open  with 
astonishment  at  the  wonders  of  the  new  mas'r's  par- 


4  TOPSY. 

lor,  displayed  a  white  and  brilliant  set  of  teeth. 
Her  woolly  hair  was  braided  in  sundry  little  tails, 
which  stuck  out  in  every  direction.  The  expres- 
sion of  her  face  was  an  odd  mixture  of  shrewdness 
and  cunning,  over  which  was  oddly  drawn,  like  a 
kind  of  veil,  an  expression  of  the  most  doleful 
gravity  and  solemnity.  She  was  dressed  in  a  single 
filthy,  ragged  garment,  made  of  bagging;  and 
stood  with  her  hands  demurely  folded  before  her. 
Altogether,  there  was  something  odd  and  goblin- 
like  about  her  appearance, — something,  as  Miss 
Ophelia  afterward  said,  "  so  heathenish,"  as  to  in- 
spire that  good  lady  with  utter  dismay;  and,  turn- 
ing to  St.  Clare,  she  said: 

"  Augustine,  what  in  the  world  have  you 
brought  that  thing  here  for?  " 

"  For  you  to  educate,  to  be  sure,  and  train  in  the 
way  she  should  go.  I  thought  she  was  rather 
a  funny  specimen  in  the  Jim  Crow  line.  Here, 
Topsy,"  he  added,  giving  a  whistle,  as  a  man  would 
to  call  the  attention  of  a  dog,  "  give  us  a  song,  now, 
and  show  us  some  of  your  dancing." 

The  black,  glassy  eyes  glittered  with  a  kind  of 
wicked  drollery,  and  the  thing  struck  up,  in  a  clear 
shrill  voice,  an  odd  negro  melody,  to  which  she 
kept  time  with  her  hands  and  feet,  spinning  round, 
clapping  her  hands,  knocking  her  knees  together, 
in  a  wild,  fantastic  sort  of  time,  and  producing  in 
her  throat  all  those  odd  guttural  sounds  which  dis- 
tinguish the  native  music  of  her  race;  and  finally, 
turning  a  somerset  or  two,  and  giving  a  prolonged 


TOPS  V.  5 

closing  note,  as  odd  and  unearthly  as  that  of  a 
steam-whistle,  she  came  suddenly  down  on  the  car- 
pet, and  stood  with  her  hands  folded,  and  a  most 
sanctimonious  expression  of  meekness  and  so- 
lemnity over  her  face,  only  broken  by  the  cunning 
glances  which  she  shot  askance  from  the  corners  of 
her  eyes. 

"  Topsy,  this  is  your  new  mistress.  I'm  going 
to  give  you  up  to  her;  see,  now,  that  you  behave 
yourself." 

"  Yes,  mas'r,"  said  Topsy,  with  sanctimonious 
gravity,  her  wicked  eyes  twinkling  as  she  spoke. 

"  You're  going  to  be  good,  Topsy,  you  under- 
stand," said  St.  Clare. 

"  Oh,  yes,  mas'r,"  said  Topsy,  with  another 
twinkle,  her  hands  still  devoutly  folded. 

"  Now,  Augustine,  what  upon  earth  is  this  for?  " 
said  Miss  Ophelia.  "  Your  house  is  so  full  of  these 
little  plagues,  now,  that  a  body  can't  set  down  their 
foot  without  treading  on  'em.  I  get  up  in  the 
morning,  and  find  one  asleep  behind  the  door,  and 
see  one  black  head  poking  out  from  under  the 
table,  one  lying  on  the  door-mat — and  they  are 
mopping  and  mowing  and  grinning  between  all  the 
railings,  and  tumbling  over  the  kitchen  floor! 
What  on  earth  did  you  want  to  bring  this  one  for?  " 

"  For  you  to  educate — didn't  I  tell  you?  You're 
always  preaching  about  educating.  I  thought  I 
would  make  you  a  present  of  a  fresh-caught  speci- 
men, and  let  you  try  your  hand  rn  her,  and  bring 
her  up  in  the  way  she  should  go." 


6  TOPSY. 

"Well,  I'll  do  what  I  can,"  said  Miss  Ophelia; 
and  she  approached  her  new  subject  very  much  as 
a  person  might  be  supposed  to  approach  a  black 
spider,  supposing  them  to  have  benevolent  designs 
toward  it. 

Sitting  down  before  her,  she  began  to  question 
her. 

"  How  old  are  you,  Topsy?  " 

"  Dunno,  missis,"  said  the  image,  with  a  grin 
that  showed  all  her  teeth. 

"  Don't  know  how  old  you  are?  Didn't  anybody 
ever  tell  you?  Who  was  your  mother?  " 

"  Never  had  none!  "  said  the  child,  with  another 
grin. 

"  Never  had  any  mother?  What  do  you  mean? 
Where  were  you  born  ?  " 

"Never  was  born!"  persisted  Topsy,  with  an- 
other grin,  that  looked  so  goblin-like  that,  if  Miss 
Ophelia  had  been  at  all  nervous,  she  might  have 
fancied  that  she  had  got  hold  of  some  sooty  gnome 
from  the  land  of  Diablerie;  but  Miss  Ophelia  was 
not  nervous,  but  plain  and  businesslike,  and  she 
said,  with  some  sternness: 

"  You  mustn't  answer  me  in  that  way,  child;  I'm 
not  playing  with  you.  Tell  me  where  you  were 
born,  and  who  your  father  and  mother  were." 

"  Never  was  born,"  reiterated  the  creature,  more 
emphatically;  "  never  had  no  father  nor  mother, 
nor  nothin'.  I  was  raised  by  a  speculator,  with 
lots  of  others.  Old  Aunt  Sue  used  to  take  care  on 
us." 


TOPSY.  1 

"  How  long  have  you  lived  with  your  master  and 
mistress?  " 

"  Dunno,  missis." 

"  Is  it  a  year,  or  more,  or  less?  " 

"  Dunno,  missis." 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  anything  about  God, 
Topsy?" 

The  child  looked  bewildered,  but  grinned  as 
usual. 

"  Do  you  know  who  made  you?  " 

"  Nobody,  as  I  knows  on,"  said  the  child,  with  a 
short  laugh. 

The  idea  appeared  to  amuse  her  considerably; 
for  her  eyes  twinkled,  and  she  added: 

"  I  spect  I  grow'd.  Don't  think  nobody  never 
made  me." 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  sew?  "  said  Miss  Ophelia, 
who  thought  she  would  turn  her  inquiries  to  some- 
thing more  tangible. 

"  Xo,  missis." 

"  What  can  you  do? — what  did  >ou  do  for  your 
master  and  mistress?  " 

"  Fetch  water,  and  wash  dishes,  and  rub  knives, 
and  wait  on  folks." 

"  Were  they  good  to  you?  " 

"  Spect  they  was,"  said  the  child,  scanning  Miss 
Ophelia  cunningly. 

The  child  was  announced  and  considered  in  the 
family  as  Miss  Ophelia's  girl;  and,  as  she  was 
looked  upon  with  no  gracious  eye  in  the  kitchen, 
Miss  Ophelia  resolved  to  confine  her  sphere  of 


8  TOPSY. 

operation  and  instruction  chiefly  to  her  own  cham- 
ber. With  a  self-sacrifice  which  some  of  our 
readers  will  appreciate,  she  resolved,  instead  of 
comfortably  making  her  own  bed,  sweeping  and 
dusting  her  own  chamber,— which  she  had  hitherto 
done,  in  utter  scorn  of  all  offers  of  help  from  the 
chambermaid  of  the  establishment, — to  condemn 
herself  to  the  martyrdom  of  instructing  Topsy  to 
perform  these  operations, — ah,  woe  the  day!  Did 
any  of  our  readers  ever  do  the  same,  they  will  ap- 
preciate the  amount  of  her  self-sacrifice. 

Miss  Ophelia  began  with  Topsy  by  taking  her 
into  her  chamber,  the  first  morning,  and  solemnly 
commencing  a  course  of  instruction  in  the  art  and 
mystery  of  bed-making. 

Behold,  then,  Topsy,  washed  and  shorn  of  all  the 
little  braided  tails  wherein  her  heart  had  delighted, 
arrayed  in  a  clean  gown,  with  well-starched  apron, 
standing  reverently  before  Miss  Ophelia,  with  an 
expression  of  solemnity  well  befitting  a  funeral. 

"  Now,  Topsy,  I'm  going  to  show  you  just  how 
my  bed  is  to  be  made.  I  am  very  particular  about 
my  bed.  You  must  learn  exactly  how  to  do  it." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  says  Topsy,  with  a  deep  sigh,  and 
a  face  of  woeful  earnestness. 

"  Now,  Topsy.  look  here; — this  is  the  hem  of  the 
sheet, — this  is  the  right  side  of  the  sheet,  and  this 
is  the  wrong; — will  you  remember?" 

"  Yes.  ma'am,"  says  Topsy,  with  another  sigh. 

"Well,  now,  the  under  sheet  you  must  bring 
over  the  bolster, — so, — and  tuck  it  clear  down 


TOPSY.  9 

under  the  mattress  nice  and  smooth, — so, — do  you 
see?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Topsy,  with  profound  at- 
tention. 

"  But  the  upper  sheet,"  said  Miss  Ophelia, 
"  must  be  brought  down  in  this  way,  and  tucked 
under  tirm  and  smooth  at  the  foot, — so, — the  nar- 
row hem  at  the  foot." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Topsy,  as  before;  but  we 
will  add,  what  Miss  Ophelia  did  not  see,  that,  dur- 
ing the  time  when  the  good  lady's  back  was  turned, 
in  the  zeal  of  her  manipulations,  the  young  disciple 
had  contrived  to  snatch  a  pair  of  gloves  and  a  rib- 
bon, which  she  had  adroitly  slipped  into  her 
sleeves,  and  stood  with  her  hands  dutifully  folded, 
as  before. 

"  Now,  Topsy,  let's  see  you  do  this,"  said  Miss 
Ophelia,  pulling  off  the  clothes,  and  seating  herself. 

Topsy,  with  great  gravity  and  adroitness,  went 
through  the  exercise  completely  to  Miss  Ophelia's 
satisfaction;  smoothing  the  sheets,  patting  out 
every  wrinkle,  and  exhibiting,  through  the  whole 
process,  a  gravity  and  seriousness  with  which  her 
instructress  was  greatly  edified.  By  an  unlucky 
slip,  however,  a  fluttering  fragment  of  the  ribbon 
hung  out  of  one  of  her  sleeve?,  just  as  she  was 
finishing,  and  caught  Miss  Ophelia's  attention. 
Instantly  she  pounced  upon  it.  "  What's  this? 
You  naughty,  wicked  child, — you've  been  stealing 
this!" 

The  ribbon  was  pulled  out  of  Topsy's  own  sleeve, 


1C.  TOPSY. 

yet  was  she  not  in  tne  least  disconcerted;  she  only 
looked  at  it  with  an  air  of  the  most  surprised  and 
unconscious  innocence. 

"  Laws!  why,  that  ar's  Miss  Feely's  ribbon,  an't 
it?  How  could  it  got  caught  in  my  sleeve?  " 

"  Topsy,  you  naughty  girl,  don't  you  tell  me  a 
lie — you  stole  that  ribbon !  " 

"  Missis,  I  declar  for't,  I  didn't ; — never  seed  it 
til!  dis  yer  blessed  minnit." 

"  Topsy,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "  don't  you  know 
it's  wicked  to  tell  lies?  " 

"  I  never  tells  no  lies,  Miss  Feely,"  said  Topsy, 
with  virtuous  gravity;  "  it's  jist  the  truth  I've  been 
a-tellin'  now,  and  an't  nothin'  else." 

"  Topsy,  I  shall  have  to  whip  you,  if  you  tell 
lies  so." 

"  Laws,  missis,  if  you's  to  whip  all  day,  couldn't 
say  no  other  way,"  said  Topsy,  beginning  to  blub- 
ber. "  I  never  seed  dat  ar — it  must  a-got  caught 
in  my  sleeve.  Miss  Feely  must  have  left  it  on  the 
bed,  and  it  got  caught  in  the  clothes,  and  so  got  in 
my  sleeve." 

Miss  Ophelia  was  so  indignant  at  the  barefaced 
lie  that  she  caught  the  child  and  shook  her. 

"  Don't  you  tell  me  that  again!  " 

The  shake  brought  the  gloves  on  the  floor,  from 
the  other  sleeve. 

"  There,  you!  "  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "  will  you  tell 
me  now,  you  didn't  steal  the  ribbon?  " 

Topsy  now  confessed  to  the  gloves,  but  still  per- 
sisted in  denying  the  ribbon. 


"  Now,  Topsy,"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  "  if  you'll 
confess  all  about  it,  I  won't  whip  you  this  time." 

Thus  adjured,  Topsy  confessed  to  the  ribbon  and 
gloves,  with  woeful  protestations  of  penitence. 

"  Well  now,  tell  me.  I  know  you  must  have 
taken  other  things  since  you  have  been  in  the 
house,  for  I  let  you  run  about  all  day  yesterday. 
Now,  tell  me  if  you  took  anything,  and  I  shan't 
whip  you." 

"  Laws,  missis!  I  took  Miss  Eva's  red  thing  she 
wars  on  her  neck." 

"  You  did,  you  naughty  child !  Well,  what 
else?" 

"  I  took  Rosa's  yer-rings, — them  red  ones." 

"  Go  bring  them  to  me  this  minute,  both  of  'em." 

"  Laws,  missis!     I  can't,— they's  burnt  up!  " 

"Burnt  up!  what  a  story!  Go  get  'em,  or  I'll 
whip  you." 

Topsy,  with  loud  protestations,  and  tears,  and 
groans,  declared  that  she  could  not.  "  They's 
burnt  up — they  was." 

"  What  did  you  burn  'em  up  for?  "  said  Miss 
Ophelia. 

"  'Cause  Fs  wicked — I  is.  I's  mighty  wicked, 
anyhow.  I  can't  help  it." 

Just  at  this  moment,  Eva  came  innocently  into 
the  room,  with  the  identical  coral  necklace  on  her 
neck. 

"  Why,  Eva,  where  did  you  get  your  necklace?" 
said  Miss  Ophelia. 

"  Get  it?     Why,  I've  had  it  on  all  day,"  said  Eva. 


12  TOPSY. 

"Did  you  have  it  on  yesterday?" 

"  Yes;  and  what  is  funny,  aunty,  I  had  it  on  all 
night.  I  forgot  to  take  it  off  when  I  went  to  bed." 

Miss  Ophelia  looked  perfectly  bewildered;  the 
more  so,  as  Rosa,  at  that  instant,  came  into  the 
room,  with  a  basket  of  newly  ironed  linen  poised 
on  her  head,  and  the  coral  ear-drops  shaking  in  her 
ears! 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  anything  what  to  do  with 
such  a  child!  "  she  said,  in  despair.  "  What  in  the 
world  did  you  tell  me  you  took  those  things  for, 
Topsy?" 

"  Why,  missis  said  I  must  'fess ;  and  I  couldn't 
think  of  nothin'  else  to  'fess,"  said  Topsy,  rubbing 
her  eyes. 

"  But,  of  course,  I  didn't  want  you  to  confess 
things  you  didn't  do,"  said  Miss  Ophelia;  "that's 
telling  a  lie,  just  as  much  as  the  other." 

"  Laws,  now,  is  it?  "  said  Topsy,  with  an  air  of 
innocent  wonder. 


THE   NASHVILLE   EXPOSITION.  13 


THE   NASHVILLE   EXPOSITION. 

By  WILLIAM  McKiNLEY,  Statesman,  ex-Governor  of 
Ohio,  President  of  the  United  States.  B.  1843,  Niles,  O. 

Selected  from  a  speech  delivered  at  the  Nashville  Expo- 
sition, June  n,  1897. 

The  battle  of  King's  Mountain,  South  Carolina,  was 
fought  October  7,  1780,  between  Colonel  Ferguson  of  Corn- 
wall is'  army  and  Colonel  Campbell  of  the  American  army. 
The  battle  resulted  in  the  crushing  defeat  of  Ferguson's 
force.  Sevier  commanded  one  of  the  divisions  of  the 
American  army. 

AMERICAN  nationality,  compared  with  that  of 
Europe  and  the  East,  is  still  very  young;  and  yet 
already  we  are  beginning  to  have  age  enough  for 
centennial  anniversaries  in  States  other  than  the 
original  thirteen.  Such  occasions  are  always  inter- 
esting, and  when  celebrated  in  a  practical  way  are 
useful  and  instructive.  Combining  retrospect  and 
review,  they  recall  what  has  been  done  by  State  and 
nation,  and  point  out  what  yet  remains  for  both  to 
accomplish  in  order  to  fulfill  their  highest  destiny. 

This  celebration  is  of  general  interest  to  the 
whole  country,  and  of  special  significance  to  the 
people  of  the  South  and  West.  It  marks  the  end 
of  the  first  century  of  the  State  of  Tennessee  and 
the  close  of  the  first  year  of  its  second  century. 
One  hundred  and  one  years  ago  this  State  was  ad- 
mitted into  the  Union  as  the  sixteenth  member  in 
the  great  family  of  American  commonwealths.  It 
was  a  welcome  addition  to  the  national  household 
— a  community  young  and  strong  and  sturdy,  with 
an  honored  and  heroic  ancestry,  with  fond  antici- 


14  THE  NASHVILLE  EXPOSITION. 

pations  not  only  of  its  founders,  but  faith  in  its 
success  on  the  part  of  far-seeing  and  sagacious 
statesmen  in  all  parts  of  the  country. 

The  builders  of  the  State,  who  had  forced  their 
way  through  the  trackless  forests  of  this  splendid 
domain,  brought  with  them  the  same  high  ideals 
and  fearless  devotion  to  home  and  country,  founded 
on  resistance  to  oppression,  which  have  everywhere 
made  illustrious  the  Anglo-American  name. 
Whether  it  was  the  territory  of  Virginia  or  that  of 
North  Carolina  mattered  little  to  them.  They  came 
willing  and  eager  to  fight  for  independence  and 
liberty,  and  in  the  War  of  the  Revolution  were  ever 
loyal  to  the  standard  of  Washington. 

Spain  had  sought  to  possess  their  territory  by 
right  of  discovery  as  a  part  of  Florida.  France 
claimed  it  by  right  of  cession  as  a  part  of  Louisiana, 
and  England  as  hers  by  conquest.  But  neither 
contention  could  for  an  instant  be  recognized. 
Moved  by  the  highest  instincts  of  self-government 
and  the  loftiest  motives  of  patriotism,  under  gallant 
old  John  Sevier,  at  King's  Mountain,  your  fore- 
fathers bravely  vindicated  their  honor  and  glori- 
ously won  their  independence. 

The  glory  of  Tennessee  is  not  alone  in  the 
brilliant  names  it  has  contributed  to  history,  or  the 
heroic  patriotism  displayed  by  the  people  in  so 
many  crises  of  our  national  life,  but  its  material 
and  industrial  wealth,  social  advancement  and 
population  are  striking  and  significant  in  their 
growth  and  development.  This  Exposition 


CHORUS  OF  ISLANDERS.  1 5 

demonstrates  directly  your  own  faith  and  purpose, 
and  signifies  in  the  widest  sense  your  true  and  un- 
failing belief  in  the  irrepressible  pluck  of  the  Ameri- 
can people,  and  is  a  promising  indication  of  the 
return  of  American  prosperity. 

Let  us  always  remember  that  whatever  differ- 
ences about  politics  may  have  existed  or  still  exist, 
we  are  all  Americans  before  we  are  partisans,  and 
value  the  welfare  of  all  the  people  above  party  or 
section.  Citizens  of  different  States,  we  yet  love 
all  the  States.  The  lesson  of  the  hour,  then,  is 
this — that  whatever  adverse  conditions  may  tem- 
porarily impede  the  pathway  of  our  national  prog- 
ress, nothing  can  permanently  defeat  it. 


CHORUS    OF    ISLANDERS. 

By  ALFRED  AUSTIN,  Poet.  B.  1835,  England.  Poet 
Laureate. 

From  "  Lyrical  Poems,"  copyrighted  by  Macmillan 
&  Co. 

SWEET  are  the  ways  of  peace,  and  sweet 

The  gales  that  fan  the  foam 
That  sports  with  silvery-twinkling  feet 

Around  our  island  home. 
But  should  the  winds  of  battle  shrill, 

And  the  billows  crisp  their  mane, 
Down  to  the  shore,  from  vale,  from  hill, 

From  hamlet,  town,  and  plain! 
The  ocean  our  forefathers  trod, 

In  many  a  forest  keel, 


1 6  CHORUS  OF  ISLANDERS. 

X 

Shall  feel  our  feet  once  more,  but  shod 

With  ligaments  of  steel. 
Ours  is  the  sea,  to  rule,  to  keep, 

Our  realm,  and  if  ye  would 
Challenge  dominion  of  the  deep, 

Then  make  that  challenge  good. 
But  ware  ye  lest  your  vauntings  proud 

Be  coffined  in  the  surge, 
Our  breakers  be  for  you  a  shroud, 

Our  battle-song  your  dirge. 
Peaceful  within  our  peaceful  home 

We  ply  the  loom  and  share, 
Peaceful  above  the  peaceful  foam 

Our  pennons  float  and  fare; 
Bearing,  for  other  peaceful  lands, 

Through  sunshine,  storm,  and  snow, 
The  harvest  of  industrious  hands 

Peacefully  to  and  fro. 
But,  so  ye  will  it,  then  our  sails 

The  blasts  of  war  shall  swell, 
And  hold  and  hulk,  now  choked  with  bales, 

Be  crammed  with  shot  and  shell. 
The  waves  impregnably  shall  bear 

Our  bulwarks  on  their  breast, 
And  eyes  of  steel  unsleeping  glare 

Across  each  billowy  crest; 
Along  the  trenches  of  the  deep 

Unflinching  faces  shine, 
And  Briton's  stalwart  sailors  keep 

The  bastions  of  the  brine. 


GRANT  AT  APPOMATTOX. 

Ocean  itself,  from  strand  to  strand, 

Our  citadel  shall  be, 
And,  though  the  world  together  band, 
Not  all  the  legions  of  the  land 
Shall  ever  wrest  from  England's  hand 

The  Scepter  of  the  Sea. 


GRANT  AT  APPOMATTOX. 

By  EUGENE  H.  LEVY,  Soldier,  formerly  a  member  of 
General  A.  P.  Hill's  Corps,  Army  of  Northern  Virginia  ; 
lives  in  New  York  City. 

An  extract  from  a  letter  written  to  the  New  York  Trib- 
une at  the  time  of  the  dedication  of  the  Grant  Monument, 
April  27,  1897. 

THIRTY-TWO  years  have  passed  since  the  battle 
flags  were  furled  and  the  victors  turned  to  the 
North  and  the  vanquished  faced  their  desolate 
homes  in  the  South,  to  begin  the  life  struggle  under 
that  old  flag  which  had  been  the  idol  of  their  Revo- 
lutionary fathers. 

After  statesmen  had  wrangled  for  nearly  two 
generations,  the  question  between  sections  was  left 
to  the  arbitration  of  the  sword,  and  the  true  men  of 
the  South  never  showed  more  valor  or  more  manli- 
ness than  they  did  in  bowing  heroically  and  uncom- 
plainingly to  the  will  of  Providence  and  the  power 
of  the  heavier  batteries  and  battalions. 

Since  that  day  at  Appomattox  the  mystic  angel's 
bugle  call  has  been  summoning  with  increased 
rapidity  the  remnant  of  the  Army  of  Northern  Vir- 


IS  GRANT  AT  APPOMATTOX. 

ginia  to  cross  the  dark  river  to  the  white  tents  of 
the  silent,  where  are  resting  under  the  eternal  truce- 
flags  the  men  who  wore  the  blue  and  the  men  who 
wore  the  gray;  all  of  whom  did  before  God  and 
man  what  they  believed  to  b°  the  full  measure  of 
their  duty. 

If  by  some  divine  mandate  the  comrades  in  gray 
who  died  before  or  who  have  been  "  called  "  since 
could  once  more  assemble  at  the  drum's  long  roll 
or  the  bugle's  summons,  they  would  rally  in  the 
lines  and  dress  ranks,  to  do  honor  to  the  memory 
of  the  heroic  commander  of  the  Army  of  the 
Potomac.  He  was  the  leader  who  in  the  hour  of 
his  magnificent  triumph  proved  his  splendid  man- 
hood by  considering  the  needs  and  respecting  the 
feelings  of  the  men  he  had  beaten,  after  the  most 
terrific  fighting  and  heroic  suffering  of  any  soldiers 
of  whom  history  has  preserved  a  record. 

In  that  supreme  moment,  when  Fame  crowned 
his  efforts  at  the  bidding  of  Victory,  Grant  gave  no 
thought  to  himself,  nor  did  he  need  to  consider  his 
superbly  equipped  army.  The  impoverished  men 
in  gray — the  men  whose  lines  were  so  thinned  by 
death,  the  men  whose  clothing  was  rags,  whose 
money  was  waste  paper,  yet  the  men  whose  man- 
hood remained,  because  they  were  of  his  race — it 
was  to  the  care  of  these  he  gave  his  first  thought; 
and  we,  who  survive  to  witness  or  share  in  this 
crowning  honor  to  himself,  cannot  forget  it  till  we, 
too,  are  called  to  join  him  and  the  heroic  Americans 
who  have  gone  before. 


MY  GREAT-AUNT'S  PORTRAIT.  19 

It  was  through  Grant  we  were  returned  to  our 
homes,  and  it  was  largely  through  his  influence  that 
we  were  returned  to  our  old  positions  in  the  Union. 

The  day  is  coming  when  we  who  fought  on 
opposing  sides  will  be  mustered  out.  Then  a 
broader  charity  will  take  the  place  of  sentimental 
hate.  Then  our  children  and  their  children's  chil- 
dren will  glory  in  the  exploits  of  Americans,  no 
matter  who  led  or  where  they  fought.  A  few 
names  like  Lincoln  and  Grant  and  Lee  and  "  Joe  " 
Johnston  will  rise  over  all  as  the  finest  types  of 
American  manhood.  Our  prosaic  mountains  and 
rivers  and  villages  will  be  full  of  ennobling  legend 
and  poetic  tradition  to  the  coming  generations,  be- 
cause of  the  men  in  blue  and  the  men  in  gray  who 
struggled  in  them. 

And  this  we  know,  and  it  thrills  our  hearts  to 
know  it,  that  the  rivers  by  which  our  heroes  sleep 
will  be  drained  to  the  sea,  and  the  battle  mountains 
on  which  they  rest  will  be  leveled  with  the  plains, 
before  the  story  of  their  valor  dies  out  or  the  record 
of  their  heroism  ceases  to  ennoble  mankind. 


MY  GREAT-AUNT'S   PORTRAIT. 

ANONYMOUS. 

I  WONDER  if,  some  future  day, 

When  looking  on  this  cardboard  square, 
(My  photograph),  some  girl  will  say, 

(Some  slim  young  maid  with  yellow  hair), 


>  MY  GREAT-AUNT'S  PORTRAIT. 

"  This  is  my  great-aunt,  you  know ; 

She  lived,  well  I  can  scarcely  tell 
Just  when,  but  awful  long  ago. 

The  picture's  taken  very  well; — 

"  I  mean  for  those  days;  but  oh,  dear, 
How  quaint  and  funny  it  seems  now; 

And  don't  her  hair  look  very  queer, 
Cut  in  a  fringe  across  her  brow? 

"  And,  goodness  me,  how  dreadful  tight 
Her  sleeves  are  made;  how  choking  high 

Her  collar  is — so  prim  and  white; 
Just  fancy  now,  if  you  and  I 

"  Should  dress  like  that?    We'd  scare  the  town! 

It  must  have  been  the  fashion  then; 
How  did  she  get  into  that  gown, 

And  how  did  she  get  out  again?  " 

Oh,  dear  unknown,  the  years  will  play 
The  very  same  old  pranks  with  you; 

Some  other  merry  girl  will  say, 

When  your  sweet  picture  meets  her  view, 

"  This  is  my  great,  great-aunt,  you  know; 

Born — well,  I  cannot  tell  the  year, 
But  very,  very  long  ago; 

And  doesn't  she  look  quaint  and  queer?  " 


"  UNCLE    TODDr  21 

"UNCLE  TODD." 

By  ISABEL  A.  MAI.LON,  Author,  Editor  ;  lives  in  Philadel- 
phia and  is  on  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Ladies'  Home  Jour- 
nal, by  whose  consent  this  extract  from  its  pages  is  taken. 

You  have  heard  of  the  Stockett  family  on  the 
Eastern  shore  of  Maryland.  Judge  Stockett  and 
his  two  sons  were  in  the  army,  and  both  the  boys 
were  killed.  They  were  brave  young  fellows,  and 
the  second  one,  a  good  lad,  was  only  eighteen  years 
old.  Well,  when  the  judge  went  home  he  found 
the  place  devastated;  his  people  were  all  gone  and 
Mrs.  Stockett  quite  broken  down.  With  "sorrow 
she  drooped,  but  she  brightened  up  for  a  little 
while,  when,  as  a  flower  of  promise,  God  gave  her, 
after  so  many  years,  a  little  daughter — the  child  of 
peace.  The  judge  picked  up  a  small  practice,  for 
he  was  a  good  lawyer,  and  those  three  people  lived 
for  each  other  and  because  they  were  together. 
The  baby  girl  was,  as  is  our  fashion,  called  after  her 
mother's  family,  and  so  she  had  the  pretty  name  of 
Stuart  Stockett.  She  had  many  admirers.  The 
young  gentlemen  all  around  met  each  other  at 
Judge  Stockett's  and  were  rivals  in  their  attentions 
to  her,  while,  like  most  of  our  sweet  Southern  girls, 
she  was  frank  and  open  in  her  behavior  to  them, 
for  she  never  dreamed  of  anything  but  politeness  or 
consideration  from  them. 

Among  Stuart's  many  beaus  was  voting  Allston, 
Colonel  Tom  Allston's  son.  Like  all  of  the  family 
he  was  handsome.  Big,  fair,  with  blue  eyes  that 


22  "  UNCLE    TODD." 

> 

danced  like  stars,  he  was  just  as  unreliable,  as  tar  as 
twinkling  goes,  as  are  the  stars.  You  can  imagine 
the  rest.  From  among  the  true  gentlemen  who 
loved  her  she  selected  the  one  who  was  a  gentleman 
by  birth  and  a  scoundrel  by  choice — for  a  man  is  a 
scoundrel  who  neglects  his  wife,  and  who  does  not 
provide  the  protection  and  care  that  he  vows  be- 
fore God  to  give  her. 

For  the  first  year  or  two  things  went  along  pretty 
well.  Then  neighbors  began  to  whisper  that  there 
were  cold  days  when  there  was  no  firewood  in  the 
Allston  house.  Mrs.  Stockett  in  the  meantime 
died,  and  the  judge  did  not  long  survive  her. 
There  was  a  small  sum  of  money  for  Stuart,  and 
with  it  her  husband,  instead  of  fixing  up  their  home 
and  going  into  some  little  business  in  the  town 
where  they  were  know-n,  brought  them  all  on  to 
this  great  big,  hard-hearted  city.  Here  Stuart  had 
no  friends.  There  was  no  kind  neighbor  to  send 
in  a  supper,  with  the  excuse  that  "  perhaps  Miss 
Stuart  might  like  a  charge  of  food,"  when  it  was 
suspected  that  the  table  was  bare.  There  was  ab- 
solutely nobod  to  turn  to  for  sympathy  or  more 
material  help.  Tom  belonged  to  a  type  that  is 
common,  too  common.  He  was  not  a  villain;  he 
was  worse.  He  \vas  thoughtless.  As  long  as  he 
did  not  see  the  hungry  children  they  did  not  trouble 
him. 

With  the  little  family  came  the  old  colored  butler, 
who,  years  before,  when  told  that  he  was  free,  asked 
helplessly,  "  What  '11  I  do  away  from  my  missus?  " 


"  UNCLE    TODD."  23 

He  had  been  with  them  in  their  prosperous  times, 
he  stayed  with  them  in  their  sorrow;  and  when  his 
dear  "  missus  "  was  dead  he  as  naturally  followed 
her  little  girl  as  if  he  belonged  to  her.  And  he  was 
a  friend  in  need  and  in  deed.  The  third  of  Stuart's 
little  babies  was  a  cripple,  and  she  found  no  arms 
as  strong  to  hold  her,  and  no  one  as  patient  to 
amuse  her,  as  Uncle  Todd. 

There  came  a  day  when  there  was  not  a  penny  in 
the  house — now  remember  this  was  a  Southern 
lady,  who  would  have  starved  before  she  would 
have  gone  in  debt.  Then  Uncle  Todd  came  to  the 
rescue.  He  applied  at  a  woodyard  and  got  an 
order  for  sawing  wood.  He  hung  around  the  big 
hotels  and  was  always  ready  to  run  an  errand. 
And  every  night  when  he  came  home  he  handed  his 
day's  earnings  to  "  Miss  "  Stuart,  and  there  was 
always,  in  addition,  a  red  apple  or  a  few  sweets  that 
Uncle  Todd  had  bought,  or  that  had  been  given  to 
him,  and  which  was  his  tribute  to  the  delicate  child. 
Out  of  the  little  money  a  tiny  bit  was  laid  by  every 
day  toward  the  rent,  but  the  husband,  the  brute 
who  was  permitting  Stuart  and  the  children  to  be 
supported  by  this  old  gentleman,  got  up  one  night, 
took  that  money  and  told  his  wife  that  he  needed  it 
•"to  get  a  new  hat  and  a  new  pair  of  gloves,  for  he 
must  not  look  shabby  among  his  friends.  And  the 
people  whom  he  sinned  against  both  forgave  him. 

One  day  Uncle  Todd  suggested  that  a  little 
money  be  taken  and  spent  for  materials  for  some  of 
the  dainty  cakes  that  "  Miss  "  Stuart  used  to  make 


24  "  UNCLE    TODD." 

for  her  mother's  afternoon  tea;  and  Uncle  Todd 
spread  them  on  a  tray,  covered  them  with  a  clean 
white  napkin  and  went  down  town  and  sold  them 
here  and  there,  wherever  he  could  find  a  customer. 
You  wonder  that  Stuart  did  not  try  to  do  some- 
thing for  herself?  What  can  a  woman  do  when  she 
has  three  little  children  pulling  not  only  at  her 
skirts,  but  at  her  heartstrings? 

Two  or  three  years  passed,  the  cake  industry 
flourished,  but  Uncle  Todd  was  growing  weaker 
and  weaker,  and  Stuart  wondered  with  horror  what 
they  would  do  without  him.  But  God  never  for- 
gets. One  day  there  came  a  message,  that,  await- 
ing Stuart  down  in  the  South-land,  was  a  home  and 
a  sufficient  income  for  all  their  needs;  it  had  been 
left  her  by  an  uncle  of  her  husband's,  and  so  ar- 
ranged that  it  was  impossible  for  the  man  who  had 
ill-treated  her  to  touch  it.  They  waited  here  for  a 
little  while,  waited  for  Uncle  Todd  to  get  some 
strength  and  rest.  Prosperity  had  been  too  much 
for  him,  and  he  had  fallen  under  it.  By  his  bed 
the  other  night  there  stood  the  woman  and  the  chil- 
dren he  had  loved  and  cared  for,  and  it  was  to  the 
music  of  the  children's  voices  that  his  soul  went  out 
to  stand  before  God,  and  he  to  join  his  dear 
"  missus." 


EGO  ET  ECHO.  25 

EGO   ET   ECHO. 

By  JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE,  Poet.     B.   1816,  Vermont;  d. 
1887,  New  York. 

I  ASKED  of  Echo,  t'other  day 

(Whose  words  are  few  and  often  funny), 
What  to  a  novice  she  could  say 

Of  courtship,  love,  and  matrimony? 

Quoth  Echo,  plainly:  "  Matter-o'-money!  " 

Whom  should  I  marry?     Should  it  be 
A  dashing  damsel,  gay,  and  pert, — 

A  pattern  of  inconstancy; 
Or  selfish,  mercenary  flirt? 
Quoth  Echo,  sharply:  "  Nary  Flirt!  " 

What  if  aweary  of  the  strife 

That  long  has  lured  the  dear  deceiver, 
She  promised  to  amend  her  life, 

And  sin  no  more,  can  I  believe  her? 

Quoth  Echo,  very  promptly:  "  Leave  her!  " 

But  if  some  maiden  with  a  heart, 
On  me  should  venture  to  bestow  it, 

Pray,  should  I  act  the  wiser  part 
To  take  the  treasure,  or  forego  it? 
Quoth  Echo,  with  decision:  "  Go  it!  " 

Suppose  a  billet-doux  (in  rhyme), 
As  warm  as  if  Catullus  penned  it, 

Declare  her  beauty  so  sublime 

That  Cytherea's  can't  transcend  it, 
Quoth  Echo,  very  clearly:  "  Send  it!  " 


26  WOMAN'S  KIGHTS. 

But  what  if,  seemingly  afraid 

To  bind  her  fate  in  Hymen's  fetter, 

She  vow  she  means  to  die  a  maid — 
In  answer  to  my  loving  letter? 
Quoth  Echo,  rather  coolly:  "  Let  her!  " 

What  if,  in  spite  of  her  disdain, 
I  find  my  heart  entwined  about 

With  Cupid's  dear,  delicious  chain, 
So  closely  that  I  can't  get  out? 
Quoth  Echo,  laughingly:  "  Get  out!  " 

But  if  some  maid  with  beauty  blest, 

As  pure  and  fair  as  Heaven  can  make  her, 

Will  share  my  labor  and  my  rest, 

Till  envious  death  shall  overtake  her? 
Quoth  Echo  (sotto  voce):  "  Take  her!  " 


WOMAN'S   RIGHTS. 

By  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS,  Author,  Orator,  Lecturer, 
Editor.  B.  1824,  Rhode  Island;  d.  1892. 

THE  woman's-rights  movement  is  the  simple 
claim  that  the  same  opportunity  and  liberty  that  a 
man  has  in  civilized  society  shall  be  extended  to  the 
woman  who  stands  at  his  side — equal  or  unequal  in 
special  powers,  but  an  equal  member  of  society. 
She  must  prove  her  power  as  he  proves  his.  When 
Rosa  Bonheur  paints  a  vigorous  and  admirable 
picture  of  Normandy  horses,  she  proves  that  she 


WOMAN'S  RIGHTS.  2? 

has  a  hundred-fold  more  right  to  do  it  than  scores 
of  botchers  and  bunglers  in  color  who  wear  coats 
and  trousers,  and  whose  right,  therefore,  nobody 
questions.  When  the  Misses  Blackwell  or  Miss 
Hunt,  or  Miss  Preston  or  Miss  Avery,  accomplish- 
ing themselves  in  medicine,  with  a  firm  hand  and 
a  clear  brain  carry  the  balm  of  life  to  suffering  men, 
women,  and  children,  it  is  as  much  their  right  to  do 
it — as  much  their  sphere — as  it  is  that  of  any  long- 
haired, sallow,  dissipated  boy  in  spectacles,  who 
hisses  them  as  they  go  upon  their  holy  mission. 

And  so  when  Joan  of  Arc  follows  God  and  leads 
the  army;  when  the  Maid  of  Saragossa  loads  and 
fires  the  cannon;  when  Mrs.  Stowe  makes  her  pen 
the  heaven-appealing  tongue  of  an  outraged  race; 
when  Grace  Darling  and  Ida  Lewis,  pulling  their 
boats  through  the  pitiless  waves,  save  fellow- 
creatures  from  drowning;  ...  do  you  ask  me 
whether  these  are  not  exceptional  women?  Flor- 
ence Nightingale  demanding  supplies  for  the  sick 
soldiers  in  the  Crimea,  and,  when  they  are  delayed 
by  red-tape,  ordering  a  file  of  soldiers  to  break 
down  the  doors  and  bring  them, — which  they  do, 
for  the  brave  love  bravery — seems  to  me  quite  as 
womanly  as  the  loveliest  girl  in  the  land,  dancing 
at  the  gayest  ball  in  a  dress  of  which  the  embroidery 
is  the  pinched  lines  of  starvation  in  another  girl's 
face,  and  whose  pearls  are  the  tears  of  despair  in  her 
eyes.  Jenny  Lind  enchanting  the  heart  of  a 
nation;  Anna  Dickinson  pleading  for  the  equal 
liberty  of  her  sex;  Lucretia  Mott  publicly  bearing 


28  DAVID  SHAW,  HERO. 

her  testimony  against  the  sin  of  slavery,  are  doing 
what  God,  by  his  great  gifts  of  eloquence  and  song, 
appointed  them  to  do.  And  whatever  generous 
and  noble  duty,  either  in  a  private  or  public  sphere, 
God  gives  any  woman  the  will  and  the  power  to  do, 
that,  and  that  only,  for  her,  is  feminine. 


DAVID   SHAW,   HERO. 
By  JAMES  BUCKHAM,  Poet,  Editor.     B.  1858,  Vermont. 

THE  savior,  and  not  the  slayer,  he  is  the  braver 

man. 
So  far  my  text,  but  the  story?    Thus,  then,  it  runs: 

from  Spokane 
Rolled  out  the  overland  mail  train,  late  by  an  hour; 

in  the  cab 
David  Shaw,  at  your  service,  dressed  in  his  blouse 

of  drab, 
Grimed  by  the  smoke  and  the  cinders.     "  Feed  her 

well,  Jim,"  he  said; 
Jim  was  his  fireman.     "  Seattle  sharp  on  time !  " 

So  they  sped; 
Dust  from  the  wheels  upflying;  smoke  rolling  out 

behind; 
The  long  train  thundering,  swaying;  the  roar  of 

the  cloven  wind; 
Shaw   with   his   hand   on   the   lever,   looking   out 

straight  ahead. 
How  she   did   rock,   old   Six-forty!     How  like   a 

storm  they  sped! 


DAVID   SHAW,  HERO.  29 

Leavemvorth :  thirty  minutes  gained  in  the  thrilling 

race. 
Now   for  the   hills;  keener  lookout,   or  a   letting 

down  of  the  pace. 
Hardly  a  pound  of  the  steam  less!     David  Shaw 

straightened  back, 
Hand  like  steel  on  the  lever,  face  like  flint  to  the 

track. 

God!     Look   there!     Down   the   mountain,    right 

ahead  of  the  train, 

Acres  of  sand  and  forest  sliding  down  to  the  plain! 
What  to  do?  Why,  jump,  Dave!     Take  the  chance, 

while  you  can. 
The  train  is  doomed;  save  your  own  life!     Think 

of  the  children,  man! 

Well,  what  did  he,  this  hero,  face  to  face  with  grim 

death? 
Grasped  the  throttle,  reversed  it,  shrieked  "  Down 

brakes!  "  in  a  breath. 
Stood  to  his  post,  without  flinching,  clear-headed, 

open-eyed, 
Till  the  train  stood  still  with  a  shudder,  and  he 

went  down  with  the  slide. 


Saved?    Yes,  saved!    Ninety  people  snatched  from 

an  awful  grave, 
One  life  under  the  sand,  there.     All  that  he  had,  he 

gave. 


3°  THE   CONSTITUTION. 

Man,  to  the  last  inch!     Hero?     Noblest  of  heroes, 

yea! 
Worthy  the  shaft  and  the  tablet,  worthy  the  song 

and  the  bay! 


THE   CONSTITUTION. 

By  WILLIAM  WIRT  HENRY,  Lawyer,  Orator  ;  grandson  of 
Patrick  Henry.  B.  1831,  Virginia 

Delivered  at  Washington,  D.  C.,  September  18,  1893.  at 
the  exercises  in  commemoration  of  the  laying  of  the  corner 
stone  of  the  National  Capitol  one  hundred  years  before  by 
President  George  Washington. 

Mr.  Wirt's  oration  was  entitled  by  him,  "The  Voice  of 
History,"  and  in  it  he  traced  the  origin  of  the  Constitution 
of  the  United  States  through  English  laws  and  institutions. 

THE  problem  before  the  convention  which 
framed  the  Federal  Constitution  was  new  and  diffi- 
cult indeed,  and  by  many  deemed  insoluble.  It 
was  the  creation  of  a  nation  out  of  the  citizens  of 
the  several  States  without  destroying  the  autonomy 
of  the  States.  It  was  to  divide  the  sovereign  power 
between  the  nation  and  the  States,  so  as  to  invest 
the  nation  with  ample  supreme  powers  to  conduct 
national  affairs,  and  to  leave  with  the  States  enough 
of  sovereignty  to  conduct  State  affairs.  It  was  to 
cause  both  governments  to  operate  directly  on  the 
citizen,  invested  with  a  double  citizenship,  without 
a  conflict  in  his  allegiance.  It  was  to  perpetuate 
Republican  governments  for  both  the  nation  and 
the  States,  each  supreme  in  its  functions  and  so 
firmly  fixed  in  its  allotted  sphere  that  they  would 


THE   CONSTITUTION.  31 

never  clash.  The  able  men  who  solved  this  prob- 
lem were  statesmen  of  the  highest  order  as  well  as 
patriots  of  the  greatest  purity.  They  thought  that 
they  understood  clearly  their  work,  but  they 
builded  better  than  they  knew.  The  form  of  gov- 
ernment that  they  constructed  has  excited  the 
admiration  of  the  world.  It  has  stood  every  test 
in  peace  and  in  war,  and  under  it  a  great  and  ever- 
growing nation  has  developed,  which  rejoices  more 
and  more,  as  the  years  roll  around,  in  the  incalcula- 
ble blessings  it  secures. 

So  jealous  were  the  people  of  their  personal 
liberty,  and  so  determined  to  have  their  rights 
secured,  that,  without  delay,  they  engrafted  upon 
the  Constitution  ten  amendments.  At  the  close 
of  the  Civil  War  another  step  forward  was  taken  in 
the  amendments  which  abolished  slavery  and  se- 
cured equal  privileges  and  immunities  to  all  citizens 
throughout  the  Union. 

Our  forefathers  trusted  the  permanency  of  the 
government  they  founded  to  the  virtue  and  intelli- 
gence of  the  people.  Virtue  and  intelligence, 
divine  attributes  given  to  man  when  he  was  made 
in  the  image  of  God!  As  the  two  cherubim,  with 
outstretched  wings  covered  and  guarded  the  holy 
oracle  in  which  was  deposited  the  ark  of  the 
covenant,  so  may  these  guard  and  protect  our  Con- 
stitution, in  which  has  been  deposited  the  priceless 
jewel  of  liberty,  as  it  is  transmitted  from  generation 
to  generation,  till  time  shall  end. 


32  LITTLE  BLUE  RIBBONS. 

LITTLE   BLUE   RIBBONS. 
By  HENRY  AUSTIN  DOBSON,  Poet.     B.  1840,  England. 

"  LITTLE  Blue  Ribbons!  "    We  call  her  that 
From  the  ribbons  she  wears  in  her  favorite  hat; 
For  may  not  a  person  be  only  five, 
And  yet  have  the  neatest  of  taste  alive? 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  one  has  views 
Of  the  strictest  sort  as  to  frocks  and  shoes; 
And  we  never  object  to  a  sash  or  bow, 
When  "  Little  Blue  Ribbons  "  preters  it  so. 

"  Little  Blue  Ribbons  "  has  eyes  of  blue, 

And  an  arch  little  mouth,  when   the  teeth   peep 

through ; 

And  her  primitive  look  is  wise  and  grave, 
With  a  sense  of  the  weight  of  the  word  "  behave," 
Though  now  and  again  she  may  condescend 
To  a  radiant  smile  for  a  private  friend; 
But  to  smile  forever  is  weak,  you  know, 
And  "  Little  Blue  Ribbons  "  regards  it  so. 

She's  a  staid  little  woman !     And  so  as  well 

Is  her  ladyship's  doll,  "  Miss  Bonnibelle  "; 

But  I  think  what  at  present  the  most  takes  up 

The  thoughts  of  her  heart  is  her  last  new  cup; 

For  the  object  thereon, — be  it  understood, — 

Is    the    "  Robin   that   Buried   the    '  Babes   in   the 

Wood  '  "— 

It  is  not  in  the  least  like  a  robin,  though, 
But  "  Little  Blue  Ribbons  "  declares  it  so. 


A  DOC  TO K  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL.  33 

"  Little  Blue  Ribbons  "  believes,  I  think, 

That  the  rain  comes  down  for  the  birds  to  drink; 

Moreover,  she  holds,  in  a  cab  vou'd  get 

To  the  spot  where  the  suns  of  yesterday  set; 

And  I  know  that  she  fully  expects  to  meet 

With  a  lion  or  wolf  in  Regent  Street ! 

We  may  smile,  and  deny  as  we  like — but,  no; 

For  "  Little  Blue  Ribbons  "  still  dreams  it  so. 

Dear  "  Little  Blue  Ribbons!  "     She  tells  us  all 

That  she  never  intends  to  be  "  great  "  and  "  tall  " 

(For  how  could  she  ever  contrive  to  sit 

In  her  "  own,  own  chair,"  if  she  grew  one  bit!); 

And,  further,  she  says,  she  intends  to  stay 

In  her  "  darling  home  "  till  she  gets  "  quite  gray  "; 

Alas!  we  are  gray;  and  we  doubt,  you  know, 

But  "  Little  Blue  Ribbons  "  will  have  it  so! 


A  DOCTOR  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL. 

By  DR.  JOHN  WATSON  ("  IAN  MACI.AREN  ").  Clergyman, 
Novelist,  Lecturer.  B.  1850,  Essex,  England. 

Pastor  of  Sefton  Park  Presbyterian  Church,  Liverpool. 

Dr.  "  Weelum "  MacLure  is  a  creation  of  the  author's 
imagination. 

It  is  interesting  to  remember  that  "  Annie  "  recovered, 
after  all. 

From  "A  Doctor  of  the  Old  School."  Copyright,  1894, 
by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co. 

DOCTOR  MACLURE  did  not  lead  a  solemn  proces- 
sion from  the  sick  bed  to  the  dining  room,  and  give 


34  A  DOCTOR  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL. 

his  opinions  from  the  hearthrug  with  an  air  of  wis- 
dom bordering  on  Ahe  supernatural,  because  neither 
the  Drumtochty  houses  nor  his  manners  were  on 
that  large  scale.  He  was  accustomed  to  deliver 
himself  in  the  yard,  and  to  conclude  his  directions 
with  one  foot  in  the  stirrup;  but  when  he  left  the 
room  where  the  life  of  Annie  Mitchell  was  ebbing 
slowly  away,  our  doctor  said  not  one  word,  and  at 
the  sight  of  his  face  her  husband's  heart  was 
troubled. 

He  was  a  dull  man,  Tammas,  who  could  not  read 
the  meaning  of  a  sign,  and  labored  under  a  per- 
petual disability  of  speech;  but  love  was  eyes  to 
him  that  day,  and  a  mouth. 

"  Is't  as  bad  as  yir  lookin',  doctor?  tell's  the 
truth;  wull  Annie  no  come  through?"  and  Tam- 
mas looked  MacLure  straight  in  the  face,  who 
never  flinched  his  duty  or  said  smooth  things. 

"  A'  wud  gie  onything  tae  say  Annie  lies  a 
chance,  but  a'  daurna;  a'  doot  yir  gaen'  tae  lose 
her,  Tammas." 

MacLure  was  in  the  saddle,  and  as  he  gave  his 
judgment,  he  laid  his  hand  on  Tammas'  shoulder 
with  one  of  the  rare  caresses  that  pass  between 
men. 

"  It's  a  sair  business,  but  ye  'ill  play  the  man  and 
no  vex  Annie."  .  . 

Tammas  hid  his  face  in  Jess's  mane,  wrho  looked 
round  >vith  sorrow  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  for  she 
had  seen  many  tragedies,  and  in  this  silent 


A  DOCTOR  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL.  35 

sympathy  the  stricken  man  drank  his  cup,  drop  by 
drop. 

"  A'  wesna  prepared  for  this,  for  a'  aye  thocht 
she  wud  live  the  langest.  .  .  She's  younger  than 
me  by  ten  years,  and  never  wes  ill.  .  .  We've 
been  mairit  twal  year  laist  Martinmas,  but  it's  juist 
like  a  year  the  day.  .  .  An'  we  never  hed  ae 
cross  word,  no  ane  in  twal  year.  .  .  We  were  mair 
nor  man  and  wife;  we  were  sweethearts  a'  the 
time.  .  .  Can  naethin'  be  dune,  doctor?  .  .  .  Can 
ye  no  think  o'  somethin'  tae  help  Annie,  and  gie 
her  back  tae  her  man  and  bairnies?  "  and  Tammas 
searched  the  doctor's  face  in  the  cold,  weird 
light.  .  . 

"  Ye  needna  plead  wi'  me,  Tammas,  to  dae  the 
best  a'  can  for  yir  wife.  .  .  Man,  a'  kent  her  lang 
afore  ye  ever  luved  her;  .  .  .  Tammas,  ma  puir 
fellow,  if  it  could  avail,  a'  tell  ye  a'  wud  lay  doon 
this  auld  worn-oot  ruckle  o'  a  body  o'  mine  juist  tae 
see  ye  baith  sittin'  at  the  fireside,  an'  the  bairns 
roond  ye,  couthy  an'  canty  again ;  but  it's  no  tae  be, 
Tammas,  it's  no  tae  be."  .  .  . 

"  When  a'  lookit  at  the  doctor's  face,"  Marget 
Howe  said,  "  a'  thocht  him  the  winsomest  man  a' 
ever  saw.  He  was  transfigured  that  nicht,  for  a'm 
fudging  there's  nae  transfiguration  like  luve." 


36  VICTORIA. 


VICTORIA. 

By  ALFRED  AUSTIN,  Poet  Laureate  of  England.  B.  1835, 
England. 

An  extract  from  the  poem  written  for  the  Diamond  Jubi- 
lee of  Queen  Victoria.  Queen  Victoria  has  reigned  longer 
than  any  other  English  sovereign. 

AND  panoplied  alike  for  war  or  peace, 

Victoria's  England  furroweth  still  the  foam, 

To  harvest  empire  wiser  than  was  Greece, 
Wider  than  Rome. 


Therefore,  with  glowing  hearts  and  proud,  glad 
tears, 

The  children  of  her  island  realm  to-day 
Recall  her  sixty  venerable  years 

Of  virtuous  sway. 

Now,  too,  from  where  St.  Lawrence  winds  adown 
'Twixt  forests  felled  and  plains  that  feel  the  plow, 

And  Ganges  jewels  the  imperial  crown 
That  gilds  her  brow; 

From  Afric's  Cape,  where  loyal  watchdogs  bark, 
And  Britain's  scepter  ne'er  shall  be  withdrawn, 

And  that  young  continent  that  greets  the  dark 
When  we  the  dawn; 

From  steel-capped  promontories,  stern  and  strong, 
And  lone  isles  mounting  guard  upon  the  main, 


COUNTRY  LIFE.  37 

Hither  her  subjects  wend  to  hail  her  long, 
Resplendent  reign. 

And  ever,  when  mid-June's  musk  roses  blow, 
Our  race  will  celebrate  Victoria's  name, 

And  even  England's  greatness  gain  a  glow 
From  her  pure  fame. 


COUNTRY  LIFE. 

By  ROBERT  GREEN  INGERSOLL,  Lawyer,  Orator  ;  B.  1833, 
Dresden,  N.  V. 

This  selection  formed  a  part  of  the  eulogy  on  President 
Lincoln  delivered  in  the  Auditorium,  Chicago,  February 
12.  1892. 

IN  a  new  country  a  man  must  possess  at  least 
three  virtues — honesty,  courage,  and  generosity. 
In  cultivated  society  cultivation  is  often  more  im- 
portant than  soil.  A  well-executed  counterfeit 
passes  more  readily  than  a  blurred  genuine.  In 
a  new  country  character  is  essential;  in  the  old 
reputation  is  sufficient.  In  the  new  they  find  what 
a  man  really  is;  in  the  old  he  generally  passes  for 
what  he  resembles.  People  separated  only  by  dis- 
tance are  much  nearer  together  than  those  divided 
by  the  walls  of  caste. 

It  is  no  advantage  to  live  in  a  great  city,  where 
poverty  degrades  and  failure  brings  despair.  The 
fields  are  lovelier  than  paved  streets,  and  great 
forests  than  walls  of  brick.  Oaks  and  elms  are 
more  poetic  than  steeples  and  chimneys. 


3§  MAKMARA. 

In  the  country  is  the  idea  of  home.  There  you 
see  the  rising  and  setting  sun;  you  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  stars  and  clouds;  the  constella- 
tions are  your  friends;  you  hear  the  rain  on  the 
roof,  and  listen  to  the  rhythmic  sighing  of  the 
winds.  You  are  thrilled  by  the  resurrection  called 
spring,  touched  and  saddened  by  autumn — 
the  grace  and  poetry  of  death.  Every  field  is  a 
picture,  a  landscape;  every  landscape  a  poem; 
every  flower  a  tender  thought,  and  every  forest  a 
fairyland.  In  the  country  you  preserve  your  iden- 
tity— your  personality.  There  you  are  an  aggrega- 
tion of  atoms ;  but  in  the  city  you  are  only  an  atom 
of  an  aggregation. 


MARMARA. 

By  CLARA  BARTON,  Philanthropist,  Author.  B.  1830, 
Massachusetts  ;  resides  at  Washington,  D.  C. 

Miss  Barton  is  President  of  the  Red  Cross  Society.  The 
following  poem  was  written  at  Constantinople,  July  4, 
1896,  while  Miss  Barton  was  in  Turkey  superintending  the 
work  of  Armenian  relief  for  the  Red  Cross  Society. 

Published  in  the  Independent,  November  26,  1896. 

IT  was  twenty  and  a  hundred  years,  O  blue  and 
rolling  sea! 

A  thousand  in  the  onward  march  of  human  liberty, 

Since  on  its  sunlit  bosom,  wind-tossed  and  sails  un- 
furled, 

Atlantic's  mighty  billows  bore  a  message  to  the 
world. 


MARMARA.  39 

It   thunders   down   its   rocky   coast,   and   stirs   its 

frugal  homes: 
The  Saxon  hears  it  as  he  toils,  the  Indian  as  he 

roams; 

The  buffalo  upon  the  plains,  the  panther  in  his  lair, 
And  the  eagle  hails  the  kindred  note,  and  screams 

it  through  the  air. 

"  Make  way  for  liberty,"  it  roared,  "  here  let  the 

oppressed  go  free; 
Break  loose  the  bands  of  tyrant  hands,  this  land  is 

not  for  thee! 
The  Old  World  in  its  crusted  grasp  grinds  out  the 

souls  of  men ; 
Here  plant  their  feet  in  freedom's  soil,  this  land  was 

made  for  them !  " 

The  mother  slept  in  her  island  home,  but  the  chil- 
dren heard  the  call, 

And,  ere  the  western  sun  went  down,  had  answered, 
one  and  all; 

For  Briton's  thirteen  colonies  had  vanished  in  ? 
day, 

And  six  and  half  a  hundred  men  had  signed  their 
lives  away. 

And  brows  were  dark,  and  words  were  few,  the 

steps  were  quick  and  strong, 
And  firm  the  lips  as  ever  his  who  treasures  up  a 

wrong; 


4°  MAKMAKA. 

And  stern  the  tone  that  offered  up  the  prayer  beside 

the  bed, 
And  many  a  Mollie  Stark,  that  night,  wept  silent 

tears  of  dread. 

The  bugles  call,  and  swords  ^re  out,  and  armies 

march  abreast, 
And  the  Old  World  casts  a  wondering  glance  to 

the  strange  light  in  the  West; 
Lo!  from  its  lurid  lightning's  play,  free  tossing  in 

the  wind, 
Bursts  forth  the  star-gemmed  flag  that  wraps  the 

hopes  of  all  mankind. 

And  weary  eyes  grew  brighter  then,  and  fainting 

hearts  grew  strong, 
And  hope  was  mingled  in  the  cry,  "  How  long,  oh, 

Lord,  how  long?  " 
The  seething  millions  turn  and  stir,  and  struggle 

toward  the  light; 
The  free  flag  streams  and  morning  gleams  where 

erst  was  hopeless  night. 

And  grim  Atlantic  thunders  still,  adown  its  rocky 
shores, 

And  still  the  eagle  screams  his  note,  as  aloft  he  sails 
and  soars; 

And  hope  is  born,  that  even  thou,  in  some  far  day 
to  come, 

O  blue  and  rolling  Marmara,  shalt  bear  the  mes- 
sage home. 


THE  NEW  AMERICANISM.  4* 


THE   NEW   AMERICANISM. 

By  HENRY  WATTERSON,  Orator,  Journalist.  B.  1840, 
Washington,  D.  C.  Editor  of  the  Louisville  Courier- 
fournal. 

An  extract  from  an  address  delivered  at  the  Eighty-ninth 
annual  festival  of  The  New  England  Society,  held  in  New 
York  City,  December  22,  1894. 

HENRY  W.  GRADY  told  us,  and  told  us  truly,  of 
that  typical  American,  who,  in  Talmage's  mind's 
eye,  was  coming,  but  who  in  Abraham  Lincoln's 
actuality  had  already  come.  In  some  recent 
studies  into  the  character  of  that  great  man  I  have 
encountered  many  startling  confirmations  of  this 
judgment;  and  from  that  rugged  trunk,  drawing 
its  sustenance  from  gnarled  roots,  interlocked  with 
Cavalier  sprays  and  Puritan  branches  deep  beneath 
the  soil,  shall  spring,  is  springing,  a  shapely  tree — 
symmetric  in  all  its  parts — under  whose  sheltering 
boughs  this  nation  shall  have  the  new-  birth  of  free- 
dom Lincoln  promised  it,  and  mankind  the  refuge 
w^hich  was  sought  by  the  forefathers  when  they  fled 
from  oppression.  The  ax,  the  gibbet,  and  the  stake 
have  had  their  day.  It  has  been  demonstrated  that 
great  wrongs  may  be  redressed  and  great  reforms 
be  achieved  without  the  shedding  of  one  drop  of 
human  blood;  that  vengeance  does  not  purify,  but 
brutalizes;  and  that  tolerance,  which  in  private 
transactions  is  reckoned  a  virtue,  becomes  in  pub- 
lic affairs  a  dogma  of  the  most  far-seeing  states- 
manship. 

So  I  appeal  from  the  men  in  silken  hose  who 


42  THE  NEW  AMERICANISM. 

danced  to  music  made  by  slaves — and  called  it  free- 
dom; from  the  men  in  bell-crowned  hats,  who  led 
Hester  Prynne  to  her  shame — and  called  it  religion, 
to  that  Americanism  which  reaches  forth  its  arms 
to  smite  wrong  with  reason  and  truth,  secure  in  the 
power  of  both.  I  appeal  from  the  patriarchs  of 
New  England  to  the  poets  of  New  England;  from 
Endicott  to  Lowell;  from  Winthrop  to  Longfellow; 
from  Norton  to  Holmes;  and  I  appeal  in  the  name 
and  by  the  rights  of  that  common  citizenship,  of 
that  common  origin — back  both  of  the  Puritan  and 
the  Cavalier — to  which  all  of  us  owe  our  being. 
Let  the  dead  past,  consecrated  by  the  blood  of  its 
martyrs,  not  by  its  savage  hatreds — let  the  dead 
past  bury  its  dead.  Let  the  present  and  the  future 
ring  with  the  song  of  the  singers..  Blessed  be  the 
lessons  they  teach,  the  laws  they  make.  Blessed 
be  the  eye  to  see,  the  light  to  reveal.  Blessed  be 
Tolerance,  sitting  ever  on  the  right  hand  of  God  to 
guide  the  way  with  loving  word;  as  blessed  be  all 
that  brings  us  nearer  the  goal  of  true  religion,  true 
republicanism,  and  true  patriotism, — distrusts  of 
watchwords  and  labels,  shams  and  heroes, — belief 
in  our  country  and  ourselves.  It  was  not  Cotton 
Mather,  but  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  who  cried: 

"  Dear  God  and  Father  of  us  all, 
Forgive  our  faith  in  cruel  lies, 
Forgive  the  blindness  that  denies. 

"  Cast  down  our  idols— overturn 
Our  bloody  altars — make  us  see 
Thyself  in  Thy  humanity  !  " 


WASHINGTON. 

WASHINGTON. 

By  JOHN  PAUL  BOCOCK.     From  "  Twinkles." 
"  FIRST    IN    WAR." 

THOSE  glorious  wars  are  long  since  sped, 
The  votive  marble  shrines  their  dead, 
The  memory  of  their  hopes  and  fears, 
Their  gallant  deeds,  their  blood  and  tears, 
And  of  the  patriots'  noble  rage 
Has  faded  into  history's  page; 
We  have  them,  heroes  all,  and  one, 
The  "  first  in  war  "  was  Washington. 

"  FIRST    IN     PEACE." 

Lo!  "  victories  no  less  renowned  " 
The  long,  bright  century  have  crowned; 
Beneath  the  fostering  hands  of  peace, 
Science,  .invention,  wide  increase, 
The  power  that  sways  a  continent, 
The  pride  to  Heaven  alone  that's  bent 
Are  thine,  Columbia,  and  thy  son, 
Still  "  first  in  peace  "  is  Washington! 

FIRST    IN    THE    HEARTS  OF  HIS    COUNTRYMEN.' 

New  crises  to  new  men  impart 
The  sturdy  arm,  the  faithful  heart; 
But,  while  the  old  flag  waves  above 
The  land  he  gave  to  us  to  love, 


44  THE  ATLANTIC  CABLE. 

Greater  than  king  or  emperor 
We'll  honor  Washington:  in  war, 
In  peace,  the  first,  and  now,  as  then, 
In  all  our  hearts  "  his  countrymen." 


THE  ATLANTIC  CABLE. 

By  JAMES  THOMAS  FIELDS,  Author,  Publisher.  B.  1817, 
New  Hampshire  ;  d.  1881,  Boston. 

On  the  27th  of  July,  1866,  telegraphic  communication 
was  established  between  Europe  and  America,  and  has  not 
since  been  interrupted. 

ALL  great  leaders  have  been  inspired  with  a  great 
belief.  There  is  a  faith  so  expansive,  and  a  hope 
so  elastic,  that  a  man  having  them  will  keep  on  be- 
lieving and  hoping  till  all  danger  is  past  and  victory 
is  sure.  Such  a  man  was  Cyrus  Field,  who  spent 
so  many  years  of  his  life  in  perfecting  a  communi- 
cation second  only  in  importance  to  the  discovery 
of  this  country.  It  was  a  long,  hard  struggle. 
Thirteen  years  of  anxious  watching  and  ceaseless 
toil  were  his.  Think  what  that  enthusiast  accom- 
plished by  his  untiring  energy!  He  made  fifty 
voyages  across  the  Atlantic.  And  when  every- 
thing looked  darkest  for  his  enterprise,  his  courage 
never  flagged  for  an  instant.  Think  of  him  in 
those  gloomy  periods  pacing  the  decks  of  ships  on 
dark,  stormy  nights  in  mid-ocean,  or  wandering  in 
the  desolate  forests  of  Newfoundland  in  pelting 
rains,  comfortless  and  forlorn!  Public  excitement 
had  grown  wrild  over  the  mysterious  workings  of 
those  flashing  wires.  And  when  the  first  cable 


THE  ATLANTIC  CABLE.  45 

ceased  to  throb,  the  reaction  was  intense.  Stock- 
holders and  the  public  grew  exasperated  and  suspi- 
cious; unbelievers  sneered  at  the  whole  project 
and  called  the  telegraph  a  stupendous  hoax.  At 
last  day  dawned  again,  and  another  cable  was  paid 
out.  Twelve  hundred  miles  of  it  were  laid  down, 
and  the  ship  was  just  lifting  her  head  to  a  stiff 
breeze,  when,  without  a  moment's  warning,  the 
cable  suddenly  snapped  short  off  and  plunged  into 
the  sea.  Field  returned  to  England  defeated.  But 
his  energy  was  even  greater  than  before.  In  five 
months,  by  the  blessing  of  Heaven,  another  cable 
was  stretched  from  continent  to  continent. 

Then  came  that  never-to-be-forgotten  search  in 
four  ships  for  the  lost  cable.  In  the  bow  of  one  of 
these  ships  stood  Cyrus  Field  day  and  night,  in 
storm  and  fog,  in  squall  and  calm,  intently  watch- 
ing the  quiver  of  the  grapnel  that  was  dragging  two 
miles  down  on  the  bottom  of  the  deep.  The  spirit 
of  this  brave  man  was  rewarded.  All  felt  as  if  life 
and  death  hung  on  the  issue.  It  was  only  when  the 
cable  was  brought  over  the  bow  and  on  the  deck 
that  men  dared  to  breathe.  Even  then  they  hardly 
believed  their  eyes.  Some  crept  toward  it  to  see, 
feel  of  it,  to  be  sure  it  was  there.  Then  they  carried 
it  along  to  the  electrician's  room,  to  see  if  the  long- 
sought  treasure  was  alive  or  dead.  A  few  minutes 
of  suspense,  and  a  flash  told  of  the  lightning  current 
again  set  free.  Some  turned  away  and  wept,  others 
broke  into  cheers,  and  the  cry  ran  from  ship  to  ship, 
while  rockets  lighted  up  the  darkness  of  the  sea. 


46  THE   "BEST  ROOM." 


THE   "BEST   ROOM." 

By  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES,  Poet,  Author,  Professor. 
B.  1809,  Massachusetts ;  d.  1894. 

THERE  was  a  parlor  in  the  houce,  a  room 

To  make  you  shudder  with  its  prudish  gloom, 

The  furniture  stood  round  with  such  an  air, 

There  seemed  to  be  a  ghost  in  every  chair; 

Each  looked  as  it  had  settled  to  its  place 

And  pulled  extempore  a  Sunday  face, 

So  snugly  proper  for  a  world  of  sin, 

Like  boys  on  whom  the  minister  comes  in. 

The  table,  fronting  you  with  icy  stare, 

Strove  to  look  witless  that  its  legs  were  bare, 

While  the  black  sofa,  with  its  horse-hair  pall, 

Gloomed  like  a  bier  for  comfort's  funeral. 

Two  pictures  graced  the  wall  in  grimmest  truth — 

Mister  and  Mistress  W.  in  their  youth, 

New  England  youth,  that  seemed  a  sort  of  pill, 

Half  wished  I  dared,  half  "  Edwards  on  the  Will," 

Bitter  to  swallow,  and  which  leaves  a  trace 

Of  Calvinistic  colic  on  the  face. 

Between  them  o'er  the  mantel  hung  in  state 

Solomon's  temple,  done  in  copperplate, 

Invention  pure,  but  meet,  we  may  presume 

To  give  some  Scripture  sanction  to  the  room. 

Facing  this  last  two  samplers  you  might  see, 

Each  with  its  urn  and  stiffly  weeping  tree, 

Devoted  to  some  memory  long  ago 

More  faded  than  their  lines  of  worsted  woe. 


ENGLAND  AND  HER   COLONIES.  47 

Cut  paper  decked  the  frames  against  the  flies, 
Though  none   e'er  dared  an  entrance  who  were 

wise ; 

And  bushed  asparagus,  in  fading  green, 
Added  its  shiver  to  the  Franklin  clean. 
When  first  arrived,  I  chilled  a  half  hour  there, 
Nor  dared  deflower  with  use  a  single  chair. 
I  caught  no  cold,  yet  flying  pains  could  find 
For  weeks  in  me — a  rheumatism  of  mind. 


ENGLAND  AND  HER  COLONIES. 

By  EDMUND  BURKE,  Statesman,  Orator.  B.  1729,  Ire- 
land; d.  1797,  England. 

From  speech  on  Moving  Resolutions  for  Conciliation 
with  the  American  Colonies,  March  22,  1775. 

ENGLAND'S  hold  of  the  colonies  is  in  the  close 
affection  which  grows  from  common  names,  from 
kindred  blood,  from  similar  privileges,  and  equal 
protection.  These  are  ties  which,  though  light  as 
air,  are  as  strong  as  links  of  iron.  Let  the  colonies 
always  keep  the  idea  of  their  civil  rights  associated 
with  your  government;  they  will  cling  and  grapple 
to  you ;  and  no  force  under  heaven  will  be  of  power 
to  tear  them  from  their  allegiance.  But  let  it  once 
be  understood  that  your  government  may  be  one 
thing  and  their  privileges  another;  that  these  two 
things  may  exist  without  any  mutual  relation — the 
cement  is  gone;  the  cohesion  is  loosened;  and 
everything  hastens  to  decay  and  dissolution.  As 


48  ENGLAND  AND  HER   COLONIES. 

long  as  you  have  the  wisdom  to  keep  the  sovereign 
authority  of  this  country  as  the  sanctuary  of 
liberty,  the  sacred  temple  consecrated  to  our  com- 
mon faith;  wherever  the  chosen  race  and  sons  of 
England  worship  freedom,  they  will  turn  their  faces 
toward  you.  The  more  they  multiply,  the  more 
friends  you  will  have;  the  more  ardently  they  love 
liberty,  the  more  perfect  will  be  their  obedience. 
Slavery  they  can  have  anywhere.  It  is  a  weed 
that  grows  in  every  soil.  But,  until  you  become 
lost  to  all  feeling  of  your  true  interest  and  your 
natural  dignity,  freedom  they  can  have  from  none 
but  you.  This  is  the  commodity  of  price,  of  which 
you  have  the  monopoly.  Deny  them  this  partici- 
pation of  freedom,  and  you  break  that  sole  bond 
which  originally  made,  and  must  still  preserve,  the 
unity  of  the  empire.  Do  not  entertain  so  weak  an 
imagination  as  that  your  registers  and  your  bonds, 
your  affidavits  and  your  sufferances,  are  what  form 
the  great  securities  of  your  commerce.  Do  not 
dream  that  your  letters  of  office,  and  your  instruc- 
tions, and  your  suspending  clauses,  are  the  things 
that  hold  together  the  great  contexture  of  the  mys- 
terious whole.  These  things  do  not  make  your 
government.  Dead  instruments,  passive  tools  as 
they  are,  it  is  the  spirit  of  the  English  communion 
that  gives  all  their  life  and  efficacy  to  them.  It 
is  the  spirit  of  the  English  constitution  wrhich,  in- 
fused through  the  mighty  mass,  pervades,  feeds, 
unites,  invigorates,  vivifies  every  part  of  the  empire, 
even  down  to  the  minutest  member. 


MONA'S    WATERS.  49 

Is  it  not  the  same  virtue  which  does  everything 
for  us  here  in  England?  Do  you  imagine,  then, 
that  it  is  the  land  tax  act  which  raises  your 
revenue?  that  it  is  the  annual  vote  in  the  committee 
of  supply  which  gives  you  your  army?  or  that  it  is 
the  mutiny  bill  which  inspires  it  with  bravery  and 
discipline?  No!  surely  no!  It  is  the  love  of  the 
people;,  it  is  their  attachment  to  their  government, 
from  the  sense  of  the  deep  stake  they  have  in  such 
a  glorious  institution,  which  gives  you  your  army 
and  your  navy,  and  infuses  into  both  that  liberal 
obedience  without  which  your  army  would  be  a 
base  rabble,  and  your  navy  nothing  but  rotten 
timber. 


MONA'S   WATERS. 

ANONYMOUS. 

OH  !  Mona's  waters  are  blue  and  bright 

When  the  sun  shines  out  like  a  gay  young  lover; 
But  Mona's  waves  are  dark  as  night 

When  the  face  of  heaven  is  clouded  over. 
The  wild  wind  drives  the  crested  foam 

Far  up  the  steep  and  rocky  mountain, 
And  booming  echoes  drown  the  voice, 

The  silvery  voice,  of  Mona's  fountain. 

Wild,  wild  against  that  mountain's  side 
The  wrathful  waves  were  up  and  beating, 

When  stern  Glenvarloch's  chieftain  came; 
With  anxious  brow  and  hurried  greeting 


5°  MONA'S    WATERS. 

He  bade  the  widowed  mother  send 

(While  loud  the  tempest's  voice  was  raging) 

Her  fair  young  son  across  the  flood, 
Where  winds  and  waves  their  strife  were  waging. 

And  still  that  fearful  mother  prayed, 

"  Oh !  yet  delay,  delay  till  morning, 
For  weak  the  hand  that  guides  our  bark, 

Though  brave  his  heart,  all  danger  scorning." 
Little  did  stern  Glenvarloch  heed: 

"  The  safety  of  my  fortress  tower 
Depends  on  tidings  he  must  bring 

From  Fairlee  bank,  within  the  hour. 

"  See'st  thou,  across  the  sullen  wave, 

A  blood-red  banner  wildly  streaming? 
That  flag  a  message  brings  to  me 

Of  which  my  foes  are  little  dreaming. 
The  boy  must  put  his  boat  across 

(Gold  shall  repay  his  hour  of  danger), 
And  bring  me  back  with  care  and  speed, 

Three  letters  from  the  light-browed  stranger." 

The  orphan  boy  leaped  lightly  in; 

Bold  was  his  eye  and  brow  of  beauty, 
And  bright  his  smile  as  thus  he  spoke: 

"  I  do  but  pay  a  vassal's  duty; 
Fear  not  for  me,  O  mother  dear! 

See  how  the  boat  the  tide  is  spurning ; 
The  storm  will  cease,  the  sky  will  clear, 

And  thou  wilt  watch  me  safe  returning." 


MONA'S    WATERS.  \ 

He  reached  the  shore — the  letters  claimed; 

Triumphant  heard  the  stranger's  wonder 
That  one  so  young  should  brave  alone 

The  heaving  lake,  the  rolling  thunder. 
And  once  again  his  snowy  sail 

Was  seen  by  her — that  mourning  mother; 
And  once  she  heard  his  shouting  voice — 

That  voice  the  waves  were  soon  to  smother. 

Wild  burst  the  wind,  wide  flapped  the  sail, 

A  crashing  peal  of  thunder  followed; 
The  gust  swept  o'er  the  water's  face, 

And  caverns  in  the  deep  lake  hollowed. 
The  gust  swept  past,  the  waves  grew  calm, 

The  thunder  died  along  the  mountain; 
But  where  was  he  who  used  to  play, 

On  sunny  days,  by  Mona's  fountain? 

His  cold  corpse  floated  to  the  shore, 

Where  knelt  his  lone  and  shrieking  mother; 
And  bitterly  she  wept  for  him, 

The  widow's  son,  who  had  no  brother! 
She  raised  his  arm — the  hand  •  as  closed; 

With  pain  his  stiffened  ringers  parted, 
And  on  the  sand  three  letters  dropped ! 

His  last  dim  thought — the  faithful-hearted! 

Glenvarloch  gazed,  and  on  his  brow 

Remorse  with  pain  and  grief  seemed  blending; 
A  purse  of  gold  he  flung  beside 

That  mother,  o'er  her  dead  child  bending. 


52  MONA'S    WATERS. 

Oh!  wildly  laughed  that  woman  then. 

"  Glenvarloch !  would  ye  dare  to  measure 
The  holy  life  that  God  has  given 

Against  a  heap  of  golden  treasure? 

"  Ye  spurned  my  prayer,  for  we  were  poor ; 

But  know,  proud  man,  that  God  hath  power 
To  smite  the  king  on  Scotland's  throne, 

The  chieftain  in  his  fortress  tower. 
Frown  on!  frown  on!     I  fear  ye  not; 

We've  done  the  last  of  chieftain's  bidding, 
And  cold  he  lies,  for  whose  young  sake 

I  used  to  bear  your  wrathful  chiding. 

"  Will  gold  bring  back  his  cheerful  voice, 

That  used  to  win  my  heart. from  sorrow? 
Will  silver  warm  the  frozen  blood, 

Or  make  my  heart  less  lone  to-morrow? 
Go  back  and  seek  your  mountain  home, 

And  when  ye  kiss  your  fair-haired  daughter, 
Remember  him  who  died  to-night 

Beneath  the  waves  of  Mona's  water." 

Old  years  rolled  on,  and  new  ones  came — 

Foes  dare  not  brave  Glenvarloch's  tower; 
But  naught  could  bar  the  sickness  out 

That  stole  within  fair  Annie's  bower. 
The  o'erblown  flowerlet  in  the  sun 

Sinks  languid  down,  and  withers  daily, 
And  so  she  sank — her  voice  grew  faint, 

Her  laugh  no  longer  sounded  gayly. 


AN  OCTOBER  MORNING.  53 

Her  step  fell  on  the  old  oak  floor 

As  noiseless  as  the  snow-shower's  drifting; 
And  from  her  sweet  and  serious  eyes 

They  seldom  saw  the  dark  lid  lifting. 
"  Bring  aid!     Bring  aid!  "  the  father  cries; 

"  Bring  aid!  "  each  vassal's  voice  is  crying; 
"  The  fair-haired  beauty  of  the  isles, 

Her  pulse  is  faint — her  life  is  flying!  " 

He  called  in  vain;  her  dim  eyes  turned 

And  met  his  own  with  parting  sorrow, 
For  well  she  knew,  that  fading  girl, 

That  he  must  weep  and  wail  the  morrow. 
Her  faint  breath  ceased ;  the  father  bent 

And  gazed  upon  his  fair-haired  daughter. 
What  thought  he  on?     The  widow's  son, 

And  the  stormy  night  by  Mona's  water. 


AN  OCTOBER  MORNING. 

By  RICHARD  DODDRIDGE  BLACKMORE,  Novelist.     B.  1825, 
England. 
An  extract  from  his  most  famous  novel,  "  LornaDoone." 

I  WAS  up  the  next  morning  before  the  October 
sunrise,  and  away  through  the  wild  and  the  wood- 
land toward  the  Bagworthy  water,  at  the  foot  of 
the  long  cascade.  The  rising  of  the  sun  was  noble 
in  the  cold  and  warmth  of  it;  peeping  down  the 
spread  of  light,  he  raised  his  shoulder  heavily  over 
the  edge  of  gray  mountain  and  wavering  length  of 


54  AN  OCTOBER  MORNING. 

upland.  Beneath  his  gaze  the  dew-fogs  dipped 
and  crept  to  the  hollow  places;  then  stole  away  in 
line  and  column,  holding  skirts,  and  clinging  subtly 
at  the  sheltering  corners,  where  rock  hung  over 
grass-land;  while  the  brave  lines  of  the  hills  came 
forth,  one  beyond  other  gliding. 

Then  the  woods  arose  in  folds,  like  drapery  of 
awakened  mountains,  stately  with  a  depth  of  awe 
and  memory  of  the  tempests.  Autumn's  mellow 
hand  was  on  them,  as  they  owned  already,  touched 
with  gold,  and  red,  and  olive;  and  their  joy  toward 
the  sun  was  less  to  a  bridegroom  than  a  father. 

Yet  before  the  floating  impress  of  the  woods 
could  clear  itself,  suddenly  the  gladsome  light 
leaped  over  hill  and  valley,  casting  amber,  blue,  and 
purple,  and  a  tint  of  rich  red  rose,  according  to 
the  scene  they  lit  on,  and  the  curtain  flung  around ; 
yet  all  alike  dispelling  fear  and  the  cloven  hoof  of 
darkness;  all  on  the  wings  of  hope  advancing,  and 
proclaiming,  "God  is  here!"  Then  life  and  joy 
sprang  reassured  from  every  crouching  hollow; 
every  flower,  and  bud,  and  bird  had  a  fluttering 
sense  of  them;  and  all  the  flashing  of  God's  gaze 
merged  into  soft  beneficence. 

The  bar  of  rock,  with  the  water-cleft  breaking 
steeply  through  it,  stood  bold  and  bare,  and  dark 
in  shadow,  gray  with  red  gullies  do\vn  it.  But  the 
sun  was  beginning  to  glisten  over  the  comb  of 
the  eastern  highland,  and  through  an  archway  of 
the  wood  hung  with  old  nests  and  ivy.  The  lines 
of  many  a  leaning  tree  were  thrown,  from  the  cliffs 


LITTLE    OKPHANT  ANNIE.  55 

of  the  foreland,  down  upon  the  sparkling  grass  at 
the  foot  of  the  western  crags.  And  through  the 
dewy  meadow's  breast,  fringed  with  shade,  but 
touched  on  one  side  with  the  sun-smile,  ran  the 
crystal  water,  curving  in  its  brightness  like  diverted 
hope. 

So  pernaps  shall  break  upon  us  that  eternal 
morning,  when  crag  and  chasm  shall  be  no  more, 
neither  hill  and  valley,  nor  great  unvintaged  ocean ; 
when  glory  shall  not  scare  happiness,  neither  hap- 
piness envy  glory;  but  all  things  shall  arise  and 
shine  in  the  light  of  the  Father's  countenance,  be- 
cause itself  is  risen. 


LITTLE   ORPHANT  ANNIE. 
By  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY,  Poet.     B.  1852,  Indiana. 

LITTLE  Orphant  Annie's  come  to  our  house  to 

stay, 
An'  wash  the  cups  an'  saucers  up,  an'  brush  the 

crumbs  away, 
An'  shoo  the  chickens  off  the  porch,  an'  dust  the 

hearth,  an'  sweep, 
An'  make  the  fire,  an'  bake  the  bread,  an'  earn  her 

board-an'-keep; 
An'  all  us  other  children,  when  the  supper  things  is 

done. 
We  set  around  the  kitchen  fire  an'  has  the  mostest 

fun 


56  LITTLE   ORPHANT  ANNIE 

A-list'nin'  to  the  witch  tales  'at  Annie  tells  about, 
An'  the  gobble-uns  'at  gits  you 
Ef  you 

Don't 

Watch 

Out! 

Onc't    they    was    a    little    boy    wouldn't    say    his 

pray'rs — 

An'  when  he  went  to  bed  'at  night,  away  upstairs, 
His  mammy  heerd  him  holler  an'  his  daddy  heerd 

him  bawl, 
An'  when  they  turn't  the  kivvers  down,  he  wasn't 

there  at  all ! 

An'  they  seeked  him  in  the  rafter-room,  an'  cubby- 
hole, an'  press, 
An'   seeked   him    up   the   chimbly-flue,   an'    ever' 

wheres,  I  guess, 
But  all  they  ever  found  was  thist  his  pants  an' 

roundabout! 

An'  the  gobble-uns  '11  git  you 
Ef  you 

Don't 

Wafch 
Out! 

An'  one  time  a  little  girl  'ud  allus  laugh  an'  grin, 
An'  make  fun  of  ever'  one  an'  all  her  blood-an'-kin, 
An'  onc't  when  they  was  "  company,"  an'  ole  folks 

was  there, 
She  mocked  'em  an'  shocked  'em,  an'  said  she 

didn't  care! 


LITTLE   ORPHANT  ANNlE.  57 

An'  thist  as  she  kicked  her  heels,  an'  turn't  to  run 

an'  hide, 
They  was  two  great  big  Black  Things  a-standin' 

by  her  side, 
An'  they  snatched  her  through  the  ceilin'  'fore  she 

know'd  what  she's  about! 
An'  the  gobble-uns  '11  git  you 
Ef  you 

Don't 

Watch 
Out! 

An'  little  Orphant  Annie  says,  when  the  blaze  is 

blue, 
An'    the   lampwick    sputters,    an'   the    wind    goes 

woo-oo  ! 
An'  you  hear  the  crickets  quit,  an'  the  moon  is 


An'  the  lightnin'-bugs  in  dew  is  all  squenched  away, 
You  better  mind  your  parents,  an'  yer  teachers  fond 

an'  dear, 
An'    churish    them    'at    loves    you,    an'    dry    the 

orphant's  tear, 
An'  help  the  pore  an'  needy  ones  'at  clusters  all 

about, 

Er  the  gobble-uns  '11  git  you 
Ef  you 

Don't 

Watch 
Out! 


58  THE   CARDINALS  SOLILOQUY. 


THE    CARDINAL'S  SOLILOQUY. 

By  SIR  EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON,  Novelist,  Statesman. 
B.  1805,  England;  d  1873. 

Armand  Jean  Du  Plessis,  Cardinal,  Due  de  Richelieu, 
was  born  at  Paris,  France,  1585,  and  died  in  1642.  He  be- 
came the  Minister  of  State  under  Louis  XIII.,  and  virtual 
ruler  of  France. 

From  the  drama,  "  Richelieu;  or,  The  Conspiracy." 

RICHELIEU  (reading).     "  In  silence,  and  at  night, 

the  Conscience  feels 

That  life  should  soar  to  nobler  ends  than  Power." 
So  sayest  thou,  sage  and  sober  moralist! 
But  wert  thou  tried?     Sublime  Philosophy, 
Thou  art  the  Patriarch's  ladder,  reaching  heaven, 
And  bright  with  beckoning  angels — but,  alas! 
We  see  thee,  like  the  Patriarch,  but  in  dreams, 
By  the  first  :tep,  dull-slumbering  on  the  earth. 
When  I  am  dust,  my  name  shall,  like  a  star, 
Shine  through  wan  space,  a  glory,  and  a  prophet 
Whereby  pale  seers  shall  from  their  aery  towers 
Con  all  the  ominous  signs,  benign  or  evil, 
That  make  the  potent  astrologue  of  kings. 
But  shall  the  Future  judge  me  by  the  ends 
That  I  have  wrought,  or  by  the  dubious  means 
Through  which  the  stream  of  my  renown  hath  run 
Into  the  many-voiced  unfathom'd  Time? 

Yet  are  my  sins  not  those  of  Circumstance, 
That  all-pervading  atmosphere,  wherein 
Our  spirits,  like  the  unsteady  lizard,  take 


THE   CARDINAL'S  SOLILOQUY.  59 

The  tints  that  color,  and  the  food  that  nurtures? 

O!  ye,  whose  hour-glass  shifts  its  tranquil  sands 

In  the  unvex'd  silence  of  a  student's  cell; 

Ye,  whose  untempted  hearts  have  never  toss'd 

Upon  the  dark  and  stormy  tides  where  life 

Gives  battle  to  the  elements, — and  man 

Wrestles  with  man  for  some  slight  plank,  whose 

weight 

Will  bear  but  one,  while  round  the  desperate  wretch 
The  hungry  billows  roar,  and  the  fierce  Fate, 
Like  some  huge  monster,  dim-seen  through  the 

surf, 

Waits  him  who  drops; — ye  safe  and  formal  men, 
Who  write  the  deeds,  and  with  unfeverish  hand 
Weigh  in  nice  scales  the  motives  of  the  Great, 
Ye  cannot  know  what  ye  have  never  tried ! 
History  preserves  only  the  fleshless  bones 
Of  what  we  are,  and  by  the  mocking  skull 
The  would-be  wise  pretend  to  guess  the  features. 
Without  the  roundness  and  the  glow  of  life 
How  hideous  is  the  skeleton!     Without 
The  colorings  and  humanities  that  clothe 
Our  errors,  the  anatomists  of  schools 
Can  make  our  memory  hideous. 
I  have  shed  blood,  but  I  have  had  no  foes 
Save  those  the  State  had;  if  my  wrath  was  deadly, 
'Tis  that  I  felt  my  country  in  my  veins, 
And  smote  her  sons  as  Brutus  smote  his  own. 
And  yet  I  am  not  happy:  blanch'd  and  sear'd 
Before  my  time;  breathing  an  air  of  hate, 
And  seeing  daggers  in  the  eyes  of  men, 


60  THE   CARDINAL'S   SOLILOQUY. 

And   wasting  powers  that  shake  the   thrones   of 

earth 

In  contest  with  the  insects;  bearding  kings 
And  brav'd  by  lackeys;  murder  at  my  bed; 
And  lone  amidst  the  multitudinous  web, 
With  the  dread  Three,  that  are  the  Fates  who  hold 
The  woof  and   shears — the   Monk,   the   Spy,  the 

Headsman. 

Would  fortune  serve  me  if  the  Heaven  were  wroth? 

For  chance  makes  half  my  greatness.     I  was  born 

Beneath  the  aspect  of  a  bright-eyed  star, 

And  my  triumphant  adamant  of  soul 

Is  but  the  fix'd  persuasion  of  success. 

Ah! — here! — that   spasm! — again!     How   life   and 

Death 

Do  wrestle  for  me  momently !     And  yet 
The  King  looks  pale.     I  shall  outlive  the  King! 
And  then,  thou  insolent  Austrian — who  didst  gibe 
At  the  ungainly,  gaunt,  and  daring  lover, 
Sleeking  thy  locks  to  silken  Buckingham, 
Thou  shalt — no  matter!     I  have  outliv'd  love. 
O  beautiful,  all  golden,  gentle  youth! 
Making  thy  palace  in  the  careless  front 
And  hopeful  eye  of  man,  ere  yet  the  soul 
Hath  lost  the  memories  which  (so  Plato  dream'd) 
Breath'd  glory  from  the  earlier  star  it  dwelt  in — 
Oh,  for  one  gale  from  thine  exulting  morning, 
Stirring  amidst  the  roses,  where  of  old 
Love  shook  the  dew-drops  from  his  glancing  hair ! 
Could  I  recall  the  past,  or  had  not  set 


THE   NATURE   OF    TRUE  ELOQUENCE.         61 

The  prodigal  treasures  of  the  bankrupt  soul 
In  one  slight  bark  upon  the  shoreless  sea; 
The  yoked  steer,  after  his  day  of  toil, 
Forgets  the  goad,  and  rests;  to  me  alike 
Or  day  or  night — Ambition  has  no  rest! 


THE  NATURE  OF  TRUE  ELOQUENCE. 

By  DANIEL  WEBSTER,  Jurist,  Statesman,  Orator.  B. 
1782,  New  Hampshire  ;  lived  in  Massachusetts  after  1804 
and  in  Washington,  D.  C.;  d.  1852,  Massachusetts. 

TRUE  eloquence  does  not  consist  in  speech.  It 
cannot  be  brought  from  far.  Labor  and  learning 
may  toil  for  it,  but  they  will  toil  in  vain.  Words 
and  phrases  may  be  marshaled  in  every  way,  but 
they  cannot  compass  it.  It  must  exist  in  the  man, 
in  the  subject,  and  in  the  occasion.  Affected  pas- 
sion, intense  expression,  the  pomp  of  declamation, 
all  may  aspire  after  it — they  cannot  reach  it.  It 
comes,  if  it  come  at  all,  like  the  outbreaking  of  a 
fountain  from  the  earth,  or  the  bursting  forth  of 
volcanic  fires,  with  spontaneous,  original,  native 
force.  The  graces  taught  in  the  schools,  the 
costly  ornaments  and  studied  contrivances  of 
speech,  shock  and  disgust  men,  when  their  own 
lives,  and  the  fate  of  their  wives,  their  children,  and 
their  country,  hang  on  the  decision  of  the  hour. 
Then  words  have  lost  their  power,  rhetoric  is  vain, 
and  all  elaborate  oratory  contemptible.  Even 
genius  itself  then  feels  rebuked  and  subdued,  as  in 


62  AN  ORDER  FOR  A   PICTURE. 

the  presence  of  higher  qualities.  Then  patriotism 
is  eloquent;  then  self-devotion  is  eloquent.  The 
clear  conception,  outrunning  the  deductions  of 
logic,  the  high  purpose,  the  firm  resolve,  the  daunt- 
less spirit,  speaking  on  the  tongue,  beaming  from 
the  eye,  informing  every  feature,  and  urging  the 
whole  man  onward,  right  onward,  to  his  object — 
this,  this  is  eloquence;  or,  rather,  it  is  something 
greater  and  higher  than  all  eloquence :  it  is  action, 
noble,  sublime  Godlike  action. 


AN   ORDER   FOR  A   PICTURE. 

By  ALICE  GARY,  Poet.     B.  1820,  Ohio  ;  d.  1871,  New  York 
City. 

O,  GOOD  painter,  tell  me  true, 

Has  your  hand  the  cunning  to  draw 
Shapes  of  things  that  you  never  saw? 

Ay?    Well,  here  is  an  order  for  you. 

Woods  and  cornfields  a  little  brown, — 
The  picture  must  not  be  overbright, — 
Yet  all  in  the  golden  and  gracious  light, 

Of  a  cloud  when  the  summer  sun  is  down. 

Listen  closer.     When  you  have  done 

With  woods  and  cornfields  and  grazing  herds, 
A  lady,  the  loveliest  ever  the  sun 
Looked  down  upon,  you  must  paint  for  me; 
Oh,  if  I  only  could  make  you  see 


AX   ORDER   FOR  A    PICTURE.  63 

The  clear  blue  eyes,  the  tender  smile, 
The  sovereign  sweetness,  the  gentle  grace, 
The  woman's  soul  and  the  angel's  face 

That  are  beaming  on  me  all  the  while ! 

I  need  not  speak  these  foolish  words: 
Yet  one  word  tells  you  all  I  would  say, — 

She  is  my  mother:  you  will  agree 
That  all  the  rest  may  be  thrown  away. 

Two  little  urchins  at  her  knee 
You  must  paint,  sir;  one  like  me, — 

The  other  with  a  clearer  brow, 
And  the  light  of  his  adventurous  eyes 
Flashing  with  boldest  enterprise: 
At  ten  years  old  he  went  to  sea, — 

God  knoweth  if  he  be  living  now, — 
He  sailed  in  the  good  ship  Commodore, 

Nobody  ever  crossed  her  track 

To  bring  us  news,  and  she  never  came  back. 
Ah,  'tis  twenty  long  years  and  more 
Since  that  old  ship  went  out  of  the  bay 

With  my  great-hearted  brother  on  her  deck: 

I  watched  him  till  he  shrank  to  a  speck, 
And  his  face  was  toward  me  all  the  way. 
Bright  his  hair  was,  a  golden  brown, 

The  time  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee; 
That  beauteous  head,  if  it  did  go  down, 

Carried  sunshine  into  the  sea! 

Out  in  the  fields  one  summer  night 
We  were  together,  half  afraid, 


64  AN  ORDER  FOR  A   PICTURE. 

Of  the  corn-leaves'  rustling,  and  of  the  shade 
Of  the  high  hills,  stretching  so  still  and  far, — 

Afraid  to  go  home,  sir;  for  one  of  us  bore 
A  nest  full  of  speckled  and  thin-shelled  eggs, — 
The  other  a  bird,  held  fast  by  the  legs, 
Not  so  big  as  a  straw  of  wheat; 
The  berries  we  gave  her  she  wouldn't  eat, 
But  cried  and  cried,  till  we  held  her  bill, 
So  slim  and  shining,  to  keep  her  still. 

At  last  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee. 
Do  you  think,  sir,  if  you  try, 
You  can  paint  the  look  of  a  lie? 
If  you  can,  pray  have  the  grace 
To  put  it  solely  in  the  face 

Of  the  urchin  that  is  likest  me; 
I  think  'twas  solely  mine,  indeed: 
But  that's  no  matter,  paint  it  so ; 
The  eyes  of  our  mother — (take  good  heed) — 
Looking  not  on  the  nest  full  of  eggs, 
Nor  the  fluttering  bird,  held  so  fast  by  the  legs, 
But  straight  through  our  faces,  down  to  our  lies, 
And  oh,  with  such  injured,  reproachful  surprise, 

I  felt  my  heart  bleed  where  that  glance  went,  as 

though 
A  sharp  blade  struck  through  it. 

You,  sir,  know, 

That  you  on  the  canvas  are  to  repeat 
Things  that  are  fairest,  things  most  sweet, — 


LABOR.  65 

Woods  and  cornfields  and  mulberry  tree, — 
The  mother,  the  lads,  with  their  birds,  at  her 

knee, 

But,  oh,  that  look  of  reproachful  woe! 
High  as  the  heavens  your  name  I'll  shout, 
If  you  paint  the  picture,  and  leave  that  out. 


LABOR. 

By  THOMAS  CARLYLE,  Philosopher,  Historian,  Essayist. 
B.  1795,  Scotland  ;  d.  1881,  England. 

THERE  is  a  perennial  nobleness,  and  even  sacred- 
ness,  in  work.  Were  a  man  ever  so  benighted,  or 
forgetful  of  his  high  calling,  there  is  always  hope  in 
him  who  actually  and  earnestly  works;  in  idleness 
alone  is  there  perpetual  despair.  Consider  how, 
even  in  the  meanest  sorts  of  labor,  the  whole  soul 
of  a  man  is  composed  into  real  harmony.  He 
bends  himself  with  free  valor  against  his  task;  and 
doubt,  desire,  sorrow,  remorse,  indignation,  despair 
itself,  shrink  murmuring  far  off  into  their  caves. 
The  glow  of  labor  in  him  is  a  purifying  fire,  where- 
in all  poison  is  burnt  up;  and  of  smoke  itself  there 
is  made  a  bright  and  blessed  flame.  Blessed  is  he 
who  has  found  his  work;  let  him  ask  no  other 
blessedness;  he  has  a  life  purpose.  Labor  is  life. 
From  the  heart  of  the  worker  rises  the  celestial 
force,  breathed  into  him  by  Almighty  God,  awaken- 
ing him  to  all  nobleness,  to  all  knowledge.  Hast 


66  DAISY. 

thou  valued  patience,  courage,  openness  to  light,  or 
readiness  to  own  thy  mistakes?  In  wrestling  with 
the  dim,  brute  powers  of  Fact,  thou  wilt  continu- 
ally learn.  For  every  noble  work,  the  possibilities 
are  diffused  through  immensity — undiscoverable, 
except  to  Faith. 

Man,  son  of  heaven!  is  there  not  in  thine  inmost 
heart  a  spirit  of  active  method,  giving  thee  no  rest 
till  thou  unfold  it?  Complain  not.  Look  up, 
wearied  brother.  See  thy  fellow-workmen  surviv- 
ing through  eternity — the  sacred  band  of  im- 
mortals! 


DAISY. 
By  EMILY  WARREN.     From  Good  Housekeeping. 

COULD  you  have  seen  the  violets 

That  blossomed  in  her  eyes, 
Could  you  have  kissed  that  golden  hair 

And  drunk  her  baby  sighs, 
You  would  have  been  her  tiring  maid 

As  joyfully  as  I, 
Content  to  deck  your  little  queen, 

And  let  the  world  go  by. 

Could  you  have  seen  those  violets 
Hide  in  their  graves  of  snow, 

Drawn  all  that  gold  along  your  hand, 
While  she  lay,  smiling  so, — 


WHAT  IS  A    MINORITY?  67 

O,  you  would  tread  this  weary  earth 

As  heavily  as  I, 
Content  to  clasp  her  little  grave, 

And  let  the  world  go  by. 


WHAT  IS  A  MINORITY? 

By  J~»HN  BARTHOLOMEW  GOUGH,  Lecturer.  B.  1817,  Kent, 
England  ;  d.  1886,  Pennsylvania. 

WHAT  is  a  minority?  The  chosen  heroes  of  this 
earth  have  been  in  a  minority.  There  is  not  a 
social,  political,  or  religious  privilege  that  you  en- 
joy to-day  that  was  not  bought  for  you  by  the  blood 
and  tears  and  patient  sufferings  of  the  minority.  It 
is  the  minority  that  have  vindicated  humanity  in 
every  struggle.  It  is  a  minority  that  have  stood  in 
the  van  of  every  moral  conflict,  and  achieved  all 
that  is  noble  in  the  history  of  the  world. 

You  will  find  that  each  generation  has  always 
been  busy  in  gathering  up  the  scattered  ashes  of  the 
martyred  heroes  of  the  past,  to  deposit  them  in 
the  golden  urn  of  a  nation's  history.  Look  at  Scot- 
.  land,  where  they  are  erecting  monuments — to 
whom?  To  the  Covenanters.  Ah!  they  were  in  a 
minority!  Read  their  history,  if  you  can,  without 
the  blood  tingling  to  the  tips  of  your  fingers. 
These  were  the  minority  that,  through  blood  and 
tears  and  hootings  and  scourgings — dyeing  the 
waters  with  their  blood,  and  staining  the  heather 


68  0   CAPTAIN!    MY  CAP  TAIN. r 

with  their  gore — fought  the  glorious  battle  of  re- 
ligious freedom. 

Minority!  If  a  man  stand  up  for  the  right, 
though  he  eat,  with  the  right  and  truth,  a  wretched 
crust;  if  he  walk  with  obloquy  and  scorn  in  the  by- 
lanes  and  streets,  while  falsehood  and  wrong  parade 
in  silken  attire,  let  him  remember  that  wherever  the 
right  and  truth  are,  there  are  always 

"  Troops  of  beautiful,  tall  angels  " 

gathered  round  him;  and  God  himself  stands 
within  the  dim  future  and  keeps  watch  over  his 
own!  If  a  man  stands  for  the  right  and  truth, 
though  every  man's  finger  be  pointed  at  him, 
though  every  woman's  lip  be  curled  at  him  in 
scorn,  he  stands  in  a  majority,  for  God  and  good 
angels  are  with  him,  and  greater  are  they  that  are 
for  him  than  all  that  be  against  him! 


O   CAPTAIN!     MY   CAPTAIN! 

By  WALT  WHITMAN,  Poet.  B.  1819,  New  York  ;  d.  1892, 
New  Jersey. 

The  poem  refers  to  Abraham  Lincoln,  who  was  assassi- 
nated April  14,  1865. 

O  CAPTAIN!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we 

sought  is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all 

exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim 

and  daring; 


0   CAPTAIN!    MY  CAPTAIN!  69 

But  O  heart!  heart!  heart! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 
Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells: 
Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the 

bugle  trills; 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths — for  you 

the  shores  a-crowding; 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager 
faces  turning ; 

Here,  Captain!  dear  father! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head ! 
It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck, 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and 

still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse 

nor  will. 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage 

closed  and  done, 

From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  ob- 
ject won: 

Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells! 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 
Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


7°  HIGHER  EDUCATION  FOR    WOMEN. 

HIGHER   EDUCATION    FOR   WOMEN. 

By  CHAUNCEY  MITCHELL  DEPEW,  Lawyer,  Orator,  Rail- 
road President.  B.  1834.  New  York. 

From  an  address  delivered  at  Troy,  N.  Y.,  May  17, 
1895,  at  the  unveiling  of  the  statue  of  Mrs.  Emma  Hart 
AVillard,  who  established  the  first  permanent  seminary  in 
America  for  the  advanced  education  of  women. 

EVERY  country  and  every  period  must  be 
judged  by  its  treatment  of  women.  By  this  stand- 
ard the  measure  of  praise  for  the  past  is  very 
limited.  The  centuries  and  the  countries  where 
woman  was  a  toy  were  distinguished  for  paganism 
and  immorality;  the  centuries  and  the  countries 
where  woman  was  a  slave  or  subordinate  to  men 
were  characterized  by  ignorance  and  brutality.  It 
is  the  mother,  with  her  culture,  or  with  the 
lack  of  it,  who  makes  the  family  and  marks  the 
state. 

It  is  a  lamentable  fact  that  it  requires  two  thou- 
sand years  from  Calvary  to  enforce  the  truths  there 
taught  of  equal  opportunity  for  the  sexes.  It  is 
less  than  one  hundred  years  since  higher  education 
for  women  was  possible.  At  the  close  of  the 
eighteenth  century  Mrs.  Barbauld,  who  was  almost 
the  only  educated  woman  of  her  time,  and  educated 
only  because  her  father  was  a  school-teacher  and 
needed  her  assistance,  sang  in  her  poetry  that 
"  Woman's  sphere  was  to  please."  Her  thought 
was  an  apology  for  her  own  education  and  a  defer- 
ence to  the  prejudices  of  the  period  against  a 


HIGHER   EDUCATION  FOR    WOMEN.  7 1 

woman  of  reading  and  culture.  Abigail  Adams, 
the  brainiest  and  most  widely  read  of  the  mothers 
of  the  Revolution,  said  in  one  of  her  letters  that  the 
only  education  deemed  necessary  for  a  woman  at 
that  time  was  that  she  should  be  able  to  read  and 
write  and  know  enough  of  arithmetic  for  domestic 
accounts.  Sidney  Smith,  a  quarter  of  a  century 
afterward,  in  opening  the  battle  in  England  for  the 
education  of  woman,  declared  that  the  opinion  in 
the  highest  circles  of  Great  Britain  was  that  her 
usefulness  and  her  charms  were  in  proportion  to 
her  possession  of  "  nimble  fingers  and  an  empty 
head."  That  Mrs.  Somerville  should  lead  in  the 
sciences  of  her  day,  and  that  Miss  Herschel  should 
win  equal  fame  with  her  famous  brother  in  the  field 
of  astronomy,  were  regarded  simply  as  extraordi- 
nary phenomena  and  fraught  with  equally  extraor- 
dinary dangers.  The  whole  literature,  and  the 
teachings  of  books,  pamphlets,  the  press,  and  the 
pulpit  of  the  early  part  of  our  century  were  that 
woman  was  physically  and  mentally  unequal  to  a 
liberal  education.  Now  we  have  Vassar  and 
Smith,  and  Wellesley  and  Holyoke,  and  Wells  and 
Radcliffe,  and  Barnard  and  other  institutions,  all  of 
-them  doing  magnificent  work,  and  demonstrating 
the  capacity  of  women  for  equal  intellectual  effort 
and  development  with  men;  presenting  a  corps  of 
superb  alumme,  who  in  every  sphere  of  womanly 
activity  have  demonstrated  the  infinite  superiority 
of  the  educated  to  the  uneducated  woman. 


72  HIGHER  EDUCA  TION  FOR    WOMEN, 

We  must  especially  recognize  the  debt  which  the 
women  of  the  United  States,  and  the  men  as  deeply, 
owe  to  Emma  Willard.  She  was  an  apostle,  an 
evangel,  of  the  higher  education  of  woman;  she 
had  the  courage  to  undertake  and  the  genius  to  see 
the  success  of  the  effort.  When  there  was  naught 
but  ridicule  or  denunciation  for  an  enterprise  which 
it  was  predicted  would  break  up  the  family  and 
destroy  the  fireside,  she,  with  serene  faith  and  un- 
faltering purpose,  set  out  to  educate  the  girls  who 
should  dignify,  adorn,  and  elevate  the  home.  She 
struggled  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  before  her 
efforts  received  recognition  and  applause  beyond 
the  boundaries  of  her  own  alumnae.  She  stood 
with  her  seminar)'  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  before 
the  country  was  aroused  to  the  importance  of  the 
movement,  and  the  sentiment  had  materialized  in 
these  great  seminaries  of  learning  for  women  which 
are  now  the  ornament  and  hope  of  our  period. 
Her  influence  did  not  stop  here.  It  crossed  the 
ocean;  it  broke  down  the  prejudices  and  the  con- 
ditions of  the  most  conservative  of  nations;  it 
created  Girton  and  Newnham  colleges  under 
the  shadows  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  and 
it  earned  for  them  and  their  students  equal  advan- 
tages in  the  curriculums  of  these  historic  seats  of 
learning. 

The  most  interesting  book  which  could  be  issued 
from  our  press  would  be  one  which  detailed  the  re- 
sults of  higher  education  for  women  in  the  last 


HIGHER  EDUCATION  FOR    WOMEN.  73 

quarter  of  a  century.  It  has  opened  for  them 
opportunities  for  a  livelihood  beyond  the  dreams  of 
the  past.  It  has  emancipated  them  from  the 
needle,  with  its  conditions  of  slavery  and  of  pauper- 
ism. It  has  given  them  numberless  fields  where 
brains  and  training  receive  their  reward.  Not 
only  has  the  community  been  relieved  from  dan- 
gers, not  only  has  the  state  been  saved  from  bur- 
dens, not  only  has  the  world  had  its  distress 
enormously  alleviated,  but  industry  and  art  and  in- 
vention have  been  stimulated  and  quickened  by 
woman's  touch  and  genius.  Journalism  and  litera- 
ture have  been  broadened  and  vivified  by  the 
efforts  of  the  alumnae  of  these  great  institutions. 
The  American  home  has  found  in  educated  woman 
a  more  attractive  wife  and  a  mother  who  is  also  a 
teacher.  The  educated  woman  has  arrived,  and  her 
coming  has  done  as  much  for  the  beauty  and  the 
splendor  and  the  loveliness  of  American  civiliza- 
tion as  the  discovery  of  America  by  Columbus 
under  the  auspices  of  Queen  Isabella  did  for  the 
world. 


74  WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY. 

WASHINGTON'S   BIRTHDAY. 

By  MARGARET  ELIZABETH  SANGSTER,  Poet,  Author,  Editor 
of  Harper's  Young  People.  B.  1838,  New  York. 

A  poem  published  in  Harper's  Round  Table,  February, 
1897. 

'Tis  splendid  to  live  so  grandly 

That,  long  after  you  are  gone, 
The  things  you  did  are  remembered, 

And  recounted  under  the  sun; 
To  live  so  bravely  and  purely 

That  a  nation  stops  on  its  way, 
And  once  a  year,  with  banner  and  drum, 

Keeps  its  thought  of  your  natal  day. 

'Tis  splendid  to  have  a  record 

So  white  and  free  from  stain 
That,  held  to  the  light,  it  shows  no  blot, 

Though  tested  and  tried  amain; 
That  age  to  age  forever 

Repeats  its  story  of  love, 
And  your  birthday  lives  in  a  nation's  heart, 

All  other  days  above. 

And  this  is  Washington's  glory, 

A  steadfast  soul  and  true, 
Who  stood  for  his  country's  honor 

When  his  country's  days  were  few. 
And  now  when  its  days  are  many, 

And  its  flag  of  stars  is  flung 
To  the  breeze  in  defiant  challenge, 

His  name  is  on  every  tongue. 


LITTLE  BOY  BLUE.  75 

Yes,  it's  splendid  to  live  so  bravely, 

To  be  so  great  and  strong, 
That  your  memory  is  ever  a  tocsin 

To  rally  the  foes  of  the  wrong; 
To  live  so  proudly  and  purely, 

That  your  people  pause  in  their  way, 
And  year  by  year,  with  banner  and  drum, 

Keep  the  thought  of  your  natal  day. 


LITTLE  BOY  BLUE. 

By  EUGENE  FIELD,  Poet,  Humorist.     B.  1850,  St.  Louis 
Mo.;  d.  1895,  Chicago,  111.  .    • 

THE  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust, 

But  sturdy  and  stanch  he  stands; 
And  the  little  toy  soldier  is  red  with  rust, 

And  his  musket  molds  in  his  hands. 
Time  was  when  the  little  toy  dog  was  new 

And  the  soldier  was  passing  fair, 
And  that  was  the  time  when  our  Little  Boy  Blue 

Kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

"  Now,  don't  you  go  till  I  come,"  he  said, 

"  And  don't  you  make  any  noise!  " 
So  toddling  orf  to  his  trundle-bed 

He  dreamt  of  the  pretty  toys. 
And  as  he  was  dreaming,  an  angel  song 

Awakened  our  Little  Boy  Blue, — 
Oh,  the  years  are  many,  the  years  are  long, 

But  the  little  toy  friends  are  true. 


?6         TENDENCIES  OF  SELF-GOVERNMENT. 

Ay,  faithful  to  Little  Boy  Blue  they  stand, 

Each  in  the  same  old  place, 
Awaiting  the  touch  of  a  little  hand, 

The  smile  of  a  little  face. 

And   they   wonder,   as   waiting  these   long   years 
through, 

In  the  dust  of  that  little  chair, 
What  has  become  of  our  little  Boy  Blue 

Since  he  kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 


THE  TENDENCIES   OF   SELF-GOVERN- 
MENT. 

By  LYMAN  ABBOTT,  Clergyman,  Author.  B.  1835,  Massa- 
chusetts ;  lives  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  and  is  pastor  of  Plym- 
outh Church. 

An  extract  from  "  The  Place  of  the  Individual  in  Ameri- 
can Society,"  an  article  contributed  to  "  The  United  States 
of  America,"  published  in  1894,  by  D.  Appleton  &  Co. 

SINCE  the  final  end  of  life  is  the  development  of 
character,  government  is  to  be  tested,  not  by  the 
temporal  and  immediate  advantages  which  it  may 
afford,  but  by  its  po\\xr  to  promote  the  develop- 
ment of  true  men  and  women.  No  government 
accomplishes  this  end  so  effectively  as  democratic 
•government.  Since  democratic  government  is 
self-government,  it  introduces  every  man  into  a 
school  of  experience — of  all  schools  the  one  in 
which  the  training  is  most  thorough  and  the  prog- 
ress most  rapid.  The  f.rst  appeal  of  democracy  is 
to  the  self-esteem  of  a  people  who  have  thought 


TENDENCIES  OF  SELF-GOVERNMENT.        77 

but  meanly  of  themselves,  or  not  thought  at  all. 
Its  first  effect  is  to  throw  the  responsibility  of  life 
upon  men  who  have  not  been  prepared  for  that 
responsibility  by  any  previous  education.  Its  first 
results,  therefore,  often  seem  disadvantageous  and 
even  disastrous.  It  produces  self-conceit,  irrever- 
ence, disregard  of  the  experience  of  the  past  as 
embodied  in  historical  traditions,  self-will  and  con- 
sequent lawlessness,  and  an  eager  and  restless  spirit 
of  ambition.  And  since  under  self-government 
the  nation  is  guided  by  men  without  experience, 
national  history  under  a  democracy  is  always  liable 
to  be  marred  by  grave  and  even  dangerous  blun- 
ders. But  these  are  the  incidental  evils  which 
necessarily  accompany  the  first  stages  in  evolution 
from  a  state  of  pupilage,  if  not  of  serfdom,  to  a 
state  of  liberty  and  manhood.  The  beneficial  re- 
sults of  that  education  which  self-government  alone 
can  afford  are,  on  the  contrary,  both  fundamental 
and  enduring.  This  school  awakens  in  its  pupils 
faith,  first  in  themselves,  then  in  their  fellow-men; 
that  lethargy  which  is  akin  to  despair  is  supplanted 
by  a  great  hope  which  becomes  the  inspiration  to 
great  achievements.  Responsibility  sobers  the 
-judgment  and  steadies  the  will  of  the  growing  man; 
his  blunders  and  their  consequences  teach  him  les- 
sons which,  learned  in  the  school  of  experience,  he 
never  forgets;  and  the  faith  and  hope  which  have 
been  aroused  in  him  bring  faith  in  and  hope  for 
humanity,  not  merely  for  himself.  A  public  opin- 
ion is  thus  created  which  is  stronger  than  standing 


?8  PAUL  REVERES  RIDE. 

armies,  and  a  spirit  of  mutual  confidence  and 
mutual  good  will  is  fostered,  which,  though  not 
disinterested  benevolence,  and  still  less  a  substi- 
tute for  it,  te- ds  to  its  development.  Thus  the 
gradual  and  increasing  effect  of  democracy  is  to 
give  to  its  pupils,  in  lieu  of  a  faith  in  some  unknown 
God,  faith  first  in  humanity  and  then  in  God,  as  wit- 
nessed in  the  life  and  experience  of  humanity;  in 
lieu  of  a  reverence  for  a  few  elect  superiors,  respect 
for  all  men ;  in  lieu  of  a  lethargic  counterfeit  of  con- 
tentment, a  far-reaching  and  inspiring  though 
sometimes  too  eager  hopefulness;  and  in  lieu  of  an 
often  servile  submission  to  accidental  masters,  a 
spirit  of  sturdy  independence  and  mutual  fellow- 
ship. So  does  democracy,  though  by  very  gradual 
and  often  conflicting  processes,  produce  the  liberty 
of  a  universal  brotherhood,  and  possess  the  secret 
of  public  peace,  the  promise  of  public  prosperity, 
the  hope  of  social  righteousness,  and  inspiration  to 
illimitable  progress. 


PAUL  REVERE'S   RIDE. 

By  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFF.LL^V,  Professor,  Poet. 
B.  1807,  Maine  ;  d.  1882,  Massachusetts. 

Paul  Revere,  Patriot,  was  born  in  Boston  in  1735  and 
died  there  in  1818. 

LISTEN,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 
On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  seventy-five: 
Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 


PAUL  REVERE"  S  RIDE.  79 

Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 
He  said  to  his  friend, — "  If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North-Church  tower,  as  a  signal-light, — 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country-folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then  he  said,  "  Good-night!  "  and  with  muffled  oar 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 

Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 

Where,  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings,  lay 

The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war: 

A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 

Across  the  moon,  like  a  prison  bar, 

And  a  huge  black  hulk  that  was  magnified 

By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till,  in  the  silence  around  him,  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  to  the  tower  of  the  Old  North 

church, 
Up  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 


8o  PAUL  REV  EKE' S  RIDE. 

To  the  belfry  chamber  overhead, 
And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the  somber  rafters,  that  round  him  made 
Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade, — 
Up  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 
Where  he  paused  to  listen,  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead 

In  their  night  encampment  on  the  hill, 

Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 

That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 

The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 

Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  "  All  is  well!  " 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret  dread 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead ; 

For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 

Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay, — 

A  line  of  black,  that  bends  and  floats 

On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 


PAUL   REVERE'S  RIDE.  8 1 

Then  impetuous  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry  tower  of  the  old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  somber  and  still. 

And  lo!  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam,  of  light! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 
A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 
And  beneath  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 
Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet: 
That  was  all!     And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and 

the  light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night ; 
And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight, 
Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock, 
When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 
•  He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 
And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 
And  he  felt  the  damp  of  the  river-fog, 
That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 
When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 


82  'PAUL   REVERE' S  RIDE. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 

Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 

Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 

Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 

f>  So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere; 
And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 
To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, — 
A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, — 
A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 
And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forever  more! 
For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 
Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 
In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need, 
The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 
And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere.     , 


THE    UNKNOWN  SPEAKER.  83 

THE   UNKNOWN    SPEAKER. 


ANONYMOUS. 


IT  is  the  Fourth  day  of  July,  1776. 

In  the  old  State  House  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia 
are  gathered  half  a  hundred  men  to  strike  from 
their  limbs  the  shackles  of  British  despotism. 
There  is  silence  in  the  hall — every  face  is  turned 
toward  .the  door  where  the  committee  of  three,  who 
have  been  out  all  night  penning  a  parchment,  are 
soon  to  enter.  The  door  opens,  the  committee  ap- 
pears. That  tall  man  with  the  sharp  features,  the 
bold  brow,  and  the  sand-hued  hair,  holding  the 
parchment  in  his  hand,  is  a  Virginia  farmer, 
Thomas  Jefferson.  That  stout-built  man  with 
stern  look  and  flashing  eye,  is  a  Boston  man,  one 
John  Adams.  And  that  calm-faced  man  with  hair 
drooping  in  thick  curls  to  his  shoulders,  that  is  the 
Philadelphia  printer,  Benjamin  Franklin. 

The  three  advance  to  the  table. 

The  parchment  is  laid  there. 

Shall  it  be  signed  or  not?  A  fierce  debate  en- 
sues. Jefferson  speaks  a  few  bold  words.  Adams 
pours  out  his  whole  soul.  The  deep-toned  voice  of 
Lee  is  heard,  swelling  in  syllables  of  thunderlike 
music.  But  still  there  is  doubt,  and  one  pale-faced 
man  whispers  something  about  axes,  scaffolds,  and 
a  gibbet. 

"Gibbet?"  echoes  a  fierce,  bold  voice  through 
the  hall.  "  Gibbet?  They  may  stretch  our  necks 


84  THE    UNKNOWN  SPEAKER. 

on  all  the  gibbets  in  the  land;  they  may  turn  every 
rock  into  a  scaffold;  every  tree  into  a  gallows; 
every  home  into  a  grave,  and  yet  the  words  of  that 
parchment  there  can  never  die!  They  may  pour 
our  blood  on  a  thousand  scaffolds,  and  yet  from 
every  drop  that  dyes  the  ax  a  new  champion  of  free- 
dom will  spring  into  birth.  The  British  King  may 
blot  out  the  stars  of  God  from  the  sky,  but  he  can- 
not blot  out  His  words  written  on  that  parchment 
there.  The  works  of  God  may  perish.  His  words, 
never! 

"  The  words  of  this  declaration  will  live  in  the 
world  long  after  our  bones  are  dust.  To  the 
mechanic  in  his  workshop  they  will  speak  hope; 
to  the  slave  in  the  mines,  freedom;  but  to  the 
coward-kings,  these  words  will  speak  in  tones  of 
warning  they  cannot  choose  but  hear. 

"  Sign  that  parchment !  Sign,  and  not  only  for 
yourselves,  but  for  all  ages,  for  that  parchment  will 
be  the  text-book  of  freedom — the  Bible  of  the 
rights  of  men  forever.  Nay,  do  not  start  and  whis- 
per with  surprise!  It  is  truth,  your  own  hearts 
witness  it;  God  proclaims  it.  Look  at  this  strange 
history  of  a  band  of  exiles  and  outcasts,  suddenly 
transformed  into  a  people — a  handful  of  men  weak 
in  arms — but  mighty  in  God-like  faith ;  nay,  look 
at  your  recent  achievements,  your  Bunker  Hill, 
your  Lexington,  and  then  tell  me,  if  you  can,  that 
God  has  not  given  America  to  be  free! 

"  It  is  not  given  to  our  poor  human  intellect  to 
climb  to  the  skies,  and  to  pierce  the  councils  of  the 


THE    UNKNOWN  SPEAKER.  85 

Almighty  One.  But  methinks  I  stand  among  the 
awful  clouds  which  veil  the  brightness  of  Jehovah's 
throne. 

"  Methinks  I  see  the  recording  angel  come  trem- 
bling up  to  that  throne  to  speak  his  dread  message. 
'  Father,  the  old  world  is  baptized  in  blood. 
Father,  look  with  one  glance  of  thine  eternal  eye, 
and  behold  evermore  that  terrible  sight,  man  trod- 
den beneath  the  oppressor's  feet,  nations  lost  in 
blood,  murder  and  superstition  walking  hand  in 
hand  over  the  graves  of  their  victims,  and  not  a 
single  voice  to  whisper  hope  to  man ! ' 

"  He  stands  there,  the  angel,  trembling  with  the 
record  of  human  guilt.  But  hark!  The  voice  of 
Jehovah  speaks  out  from  the  awful  cloud : }'  Let 
there  be  light  again !  Tell  my  people,  the  poor  and 
oppressed,  to  go  out  from  the  old  world,  from  op- 
pression and  blood,  and  build  my  altar  in  the  new!  \ 

"  As  I  live,  my  friends,  I  believe  that  to  be  His 
voice!  Yes,  were  my  soul  trembling  on  the  verge 
of  eternity,  were  this  hand  freezing  in  death,  were 
this  voice  choking  in  the  last  struggle,  I  would  still 
with  the  last  impulse  of  that  soul,  with  the  last 
wave  of  that  hand,  with  the  last  gasp  of  that 
voice,  implore  you  to  remember  this  truth — God 
has  given  America  to  be  free!  Yes,  as  I  sank 
into  the  gloomy  shadows  of  the  grave,  with  my  last 
faint  whisper  I  would  beg  you  to  sign  that  parch- 
ment for  the  sake  of  the  millions  whose  very  breath 
is  now  hushed  in  intense  expectation  as  they  look 
up  to  you  for  the  awful  words,  '  You  are  free! ' ' 


86  GARETH. 

The  unknown  speaker  fell  exhausted  in  his  seat; 
but  the  work  was  done. 

A  wild  murmur  runs  through  the  hall.  "  Sign!  " 
There  is  no  doubt  now.  Look  how  they  rush  for- 
ward! Stout-hearted  John  Hancock  has  scarcely 
time  to  sign  his  bold  name  before  the  pen  is 
grasped  by  another,  another,  and  another.  Look 
how  the  names  blaze  on  the  parchment!  Adams 
and  Lee,  Jefferson  and  Carroll,  Franklin  and  Sher- 
man! And  now  the  parchment  is  signed. 

Now,  old  man  in  the  steeple,  now  bare  your  arm 
and  let  the  bell  speak!  Hark  to  the  music  of  that 
bell !  Is  there  not  a  poetry  in  that  sound,  a  poetry 
more  sublime  than  that  of  Shakspere  and  Milton? 
Is  there  not  a  music  in  that  sound  that  reminds  you 
of  those  sublime  tones  which  broke  from  angel  lips 
when  the  news  of  the  child  Jesus  burst  on  the  hill- 
tops of  Bethlehem?  For  the  tones  of  that  bell  now 
come  pealing,  pealing,  pealing,  "  Independence 
now  and  Independence  forever!" 


GARETH. 

By  ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON,  Poet.     B.  1809,  England  ;  d. 

1892. 

An  extract  from  "  Gareth  andLynette,"oneof  the"  Idylls 
of  the  King,"  published  between  1858  and  1886. 

THE  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent, 
And  tallest,  Gareth,  in  a  showerful  spring 
Stared  at  the  spate.     A  slender-shafted  Pine 
Lost  footing,  fell,  and  so  was  whirl'd  away. 


GARErif.  87 

"  How  he  went  down,"  said  Gareth,  "  as  a  false 

Knight 

Or  evil  king  before  my  lance,  if  lance 
Were  mine  to  use — O  senseless  cataract, 
Bearing  all  clown  in  thy  precipitancy — 
And  yet  thou  art  but  swollen  with  cold  snows 
And  mine  is  living  blood:  thou  dost  His  will, 
The  Maker's,  and  not  knowest,  and  I  that  know, 
Have  strength  and  wit,  in  my  good  mother's  hall 
Linger  with  vacillating  obedience, 
Prison'd,  and  kept  and  coax'd  and  whistled  to — 
Since  the  good  mother  holds  me  still  a  child !  " 

And  Gareth  went,  and  hovering  round  her  chair 
Ask'd,  "  Mother,  tho'  ye  count  me  still  a  child, 
Sweet  mother,  do  ye  love  the  child?  "    She  laugh'd, 
"  Thou  art  but  a  wild-goose  to  question  it." 
"  Then,  mother,  an  ye  love  the  child,"  he  said, 
"  Being  a  goose  and  rather  tame  than  wild, 
Hear  the  child's  story."     "  Yea,  my  well-beloved, 
An  'twere  but  of  the  goose  and  golden  eggs." 

And  Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kindling  eyes, 
"  Nay,  nay,  good  mother,  but  this  egg  of  mine 
Was  finer  gold  than  any  goose  can  lay; 
For  this  an  Eagle,  a  royal  Eagle,  laid 
Almost  beyond  eye-reach,  on  such  a  palm 
As  glitters  gilded  in  thy  Book  of  Hours. 
And  there  was  ever  haunting  round  the  palm 
A  lusty  youth,  but  poor,  who  often  saw 
The  splendor  sparkling  from  aloft,  and  thought 


88  GARETH. 

'  An  I  could  climb  and  lay  my  hand  upon  it, 
Then  were  I  wealthier  than  a  leash  of  kings.' 
But  ever  when  he  reach'd  a  hand  to  climb, 
One,  that  had  loved  him  from  his  childhood,  caught 
And  stay'd  him,  '  Climb  not,  lest  thou  break  thy 

neck, 

I  charge  thee  by  my  love,'  and  so  the  boy, 
Sweet  mother,  neither  clomb,  nor  brake  his  neck, 
But  brake  his  very  heart  in  pining  for  it, 
And  past  away." 

Then  Bellicent  bemoan'd  herself  and  said, 
"  Hast  thou  no  pity  upon  my  loneliness? 
Lo,  where  thy  father  Lot  beside  the  hearth 
Lies  like  a  log,  and  all  but  smolder'd  out! 
Stay  therefore  thou ; "  .  .  . 

Then  Gareth,  "  An  ye  hold  me  yet  for  child, 
Hear  yet  once  more  the  story  of  the  child. 
For,  mother,  there  was  once  a  King,  like  ours. 
The  prince  h.s  heir,  when  tall  and  marriageable, 
Ask'd  for  a  bride ;  and  thereupon  the  King 
Set  two  before  him.     One  was  fair,  strong,  arm'd — 
But  to  be  won  by  force — and  many  men 
Desired  her;  one,  good  lack!  no  man  desired. 
And  these  were  the  conditions  of  the  King: 
That  save  he  won  the  first  by  force,  he  needs 
Must  wed  that  other,  whom  no  man  desired, 
A  red-faced  bride  who  knew  herself  so  vile, 
That  evermore  she  long'd  to  hide  herself, 
Nor  fronted  man  or  woman,  eye  to  eye — 


ZEA'OZIA'S  DEFENSE.  89 

Yea — some  she  cleaved  to,  but  they  died  of  her. 
And    one — they    call'd    her    Fame;    and    one,    O 

Mother, 

How  can  ye  keep  me  tether'd  to  you — Shame! 
Man  am  I  grown,  a  man's  work  must  I  do. 
Follow  the  deer?  follow  the  Christ,  the  King, 
Live   pure,   speak   true,   right  wrong,   follow   the 

King- 
Else,  wherefore  born?  " 


ZEXOBIA'S  DEFENSE. 

By  WILLIAM  WARE,  Novelist,  Critic.  B.  1797,  Massa- 
chusetts ;  d.  1852,  Massachusetts. 

I  AM  charged  with  pride  and  ambition.  The 
charge  is  true,  and  I  glory  in  its  truth.  \Yho  ever 
achieved  anything  great  in  letters,  art,  or  arms,  who 
was  not  ambitious?  Caesar  was  not  more  ambi- 
tious than  Cicero.  It  was  but  in  another  way.  All 
greatness  is  born  of  ambition.  Let  the  ambition 
be  a  noble  one,  and  who  shall  blame  it?  I  confess 
I  did  once  aspire  to  be  queen,  not  only  of  Palmyra, 
but  of  the  East.  That  I  am.  I  now  aspire  to  re- 
main so.  Is  it  not  an  honorable  ambition?  Does 
it  not  become  a  descendant  of  the  Ptolemies  and  of 
Cleopatra?  I  am  applauded  bv  you  all  for  what  I 
have  already  done.  You  would  not  it  should  have 
been  less. 

P>nt  why  pause  here?  Is  so  much  ambition 
praiseworthy,  and  more  criminal?  Is  it  fixed  in 


go  ZENOBIAS  DEFENSE. 

nature  that  the  limits  of  this  empire  should  be 
Egypt  on  the  on-e  hand,  the  Hellespont  and  the 
Euxine  on  the  other?  Were  not  Suez  and  Ar- 
menia more  natural  limits?  Or  hath  empire  no 
natural  limits,  but  is  as  broad  as  the  genius  that 
can  devise,  and  the  power  that  can  win?  Rome 
has  the  West.  Let  Palmyra  possess  the  East. 
Not  that  nature  prescribes  this  and  no  more.  The 
gods  prospering,  I  mean  that  the  Mediterranean 
shall  not  hem  me  in  upon  the  west,  or  Persia  on 
the  east.  Longinus  is  right,  I  would  that  the 
world  were  mine.  I  feel  within  the  will  and  the 
power  to  bless  it,  were  it  so. 

Are  not  my  people  happy?  I  look  upon  the  past 
and  the  present,  upon  my  nearer  and  remoter  sub- 
jects, and  ask,  nor  fear  the  answer,  Whom  have  I 
wronged?  What  province  have  I  oppressed;  what 
city  pillaged;  what  region  drained  with  taxes? 
Whose  life  have  I  unjustly  taken,  or  whose  estates 
have  I  coveted  or  robbed?  Whose  honor  have  I 
wantonly  assailed?  Whose  rights,  though  of  the 
weakest  and  poorest,  have  I  violated?  I  dwell, 
where  I  would  ever  dwell,  in  the  hearts  of  my 
people.  It  is  written  in  your  faces,  that  I  reign  not 
more  over  you  than  within  you.  The  foundation  of 
my  throne  is  not  more  power  than  love.  .  . 

This  is  no  vain  boasting;  receive  it  not  so,  good 
friends.  It  is  but  the  truth.  He  who  traduces 
himself  sins  in  the  same  way  as  he  who  traduces 
aiwther.  He  who  is  unjust  to  himself,  or  less  than 
just,  breaks  a  law,  as  well  as  he  who  hurts  his 


CONSIDER.  91 

neighbor.  I  tell  you  what  I  am,  and  what  I  have 
done,  that  your  trust  for  the  future  may  not  rest 
on  ignorant  grounds.  If  I  am  more  than  just  to 
myself,  rebuke  me.  If  I  have  overstepped  the 
modesty  that  became  me,  I  am  open  to  your  cen- 
sure, and  I  will  bear  it. 

But  I  have  spoken  that  you  may  know  your 
queen,  not  only  by  her  acts,  but  by  her  admitted 
principles.  I  tell  you  then  that  I  am  ambitious, 
that  I  crave  dominion,  and  while  I  live  I  will  reign. 
Sprung  from  a  line  of  kings,  a  throne  is  my  natural 
seat.  I  love  it.  But  I  strive  too,  you  can  bear  me 
witness  that  I  do,  that  it  shall  be,  while  I  sit  upon 
it,  an  honored  and  unpolluted  seat.  If  I  can,  I  will 
hang  a  yet  brighter  glory  around  it. 


CONSIDER. 

By  CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI,  Poet.     B.  1830,  Lon 
don  ;  d.  1894. 

CONSIDER 

The  lilies  of  the  field,  whose  bloom  is  brief — 
We  are  as  they; 
Like  them  we  fade  away, 
As  doth  a  leaf. 

Consider 

The  sparrows  of  the  air,  of  small  account: 
Our  God  doth  view 
Whether  they  fall  or  mount — 
He  guards  us  too. 


92       THE  BALLAD  OF  EAST  AND  WEST. 

Consider 

The  lilies,  that  do  neither  spin  nor  toil, 
Yet  are  most  fair — 
What  profits  all  this  care, 
And  all  this  coil? 

Consider 

The  birds,  that  have  no  barn  nor  harvest -weeks ; 
God  gives  them  food — 
Much  more  our  Father  seeks 
To  do  us  good. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  EAST  AND  WEST. 

By  RUDYARD  KIPLING,  Poet,  Author.     B.  1864,  Bombay  ; 
resides  in  England.     Copyright  by  Macmillan  &  Co. 

OH,  East  is  East,  and  West  is  West,  and  never  the 

twain  shall  meet, 
Till  Earth  and  Sky  stand  presently  at  God's  great 

Judgment  Seat; 
But  there  is  neither  East  nor  West,  Border,  nor 

Breed,  nor  Birth, 
When  two  strong  men  stand  face  to  face,  tho'  they 

come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth ! 

Kamal  is  out  with  twenty  men  to  raise  the  Border 

side, 
And  he  has  lifted  the  Colonel's  mare  that  is  the 

Colonel's  pride: 
He  has  lifted  her  out  of  the  stable-door  between  the 

dawn  and  the  day, 


THE  BALLAD   OF  EAST  AND    WEST.          93 

And  turned  the  calkins  upon  her  feet,  and  ridden 

her  far  away. 
Then  up  and  spoke  the  Colonel's  son  that  led  a 

troop  of  the  Guides: 
"  Is  there  never  a  man  of  all  my  men  can  say  where 

Kamal  hides?" 
Then  up  and  spoke  Mahommed  Khan,  the  son  of 

the  Ressaldar, 
"  If  ye  know  the  track  of  the  morning-mist,  ye 

know  where  his  pickets  are. 
At  dusk  he  harries  the  Abazai — at  dawn  he  is  into 

Bonair, 
But  he  must  go  by  Fort  Bukloh  to  his  own  place 

to  fare, 
So  if  ye  gallop  to  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as  a  bird  can 

fly, 

By  the  favor  of  God  ye  may  cut  him  off  ere  he  win 

to  the  Tongue  of  Jagai, 
But  if  he  be  passed  the  Tongue  of  Jagai,  right 

swiftly  turn  ye  then, 
For  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  that  grisly  plain 

is  sown  with  Kamal's  men. 
There  is  rock  to  the  left,  and  rock  to  the  right,  and 

low  lean  thorn  between, 
.  And  ye  may  hear  a  breech-bolt  snick  where  never  a 

man  is  seen." 
The  Colonel's  son  has  taken  a  horse,  and  a  raw 

rough  dun  was  he.  .  . 
The  Colonel's  son  to  the  Fort  has  won,  they  bid 

him  stay  to  eat — 


94          THE  BALLAD   OF  EAST  AND    WEST. 

Who  rides  at  the  tail  of  a  Border  thief,  he  sits  not 

long  at  his  meat. 
He's  up  and  away  from  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as  he 

can  fly, 
Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare  in  the  gut  of 

the  Tongue  of  Jagai, 
Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare  with  Kamal 

upon  her  back, 
And  when  he  could  spy  the  white  of  her  eye,  he 

made  the  pistol  crack. 

He  has  fired  once,  he  has  fired  twice,  but  the  whis- 
tling ball  went  wide. 
"Ye  shoot  like  a  soldier!"  Kamal  said.     "Show 

now  if  ye  can  ride." 
The  dun  he  leaned  against  the  bit  and  slugged  his 

head  above, 
But  the  red  mare  played  with  the  snaffle-bars,  as  a 

maiden  plays  with  a  glove. 
There  was  rock  to  the  left  and  rock  to  the  right, 

and  low  lean  thorn  between, 
And  thrice  he  heard  a  breech-bolt  snick  tho'  never 

a  man  was  seen. 
They  have  ridden  the  low  moon  out  of  the  sky, 

their  hoofs  drum  up  the  dawn, 
The  dun  he  went  like  a  wounded  bull,  but  the  mare 

like  a  new-roused  fawn. 
The  dun  he  fell  at  a  water-course — in  a  woeful 

heap  fell  he, 
And  Kamal  has  turned  the  red  mare  back,  and 

pulled  the  rider  free. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  EAST  AND    WEST.          95 

He  has  knocked  the  pistol  out  of  his  hand — small 

room  was  there  to  strive — 
'  'Twas  only  by  favcr  of  mine,"  quoth  he,  "  ye  rode 

so  long  alive: 
There  was  not  a  rock  for  twenty  mile,  there  was 

not  a  clump  of  tree, 
But  covered  a  man  of  my  own  with  his  rifle  cocked 

on  his  knee. 

If  I  had  raised  my  bridle-hand  as  I  have  held  it  low, 
The  little  jackals,  that  flee  so  fast,  were  feasting  all 

in  a  row." 
Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son : — "  Do  good  to 

bird  and  beast, 
But  count  who  come  for  the  broken  meats  before 

thou  makest  a  feast. 
If  there  should  follow  a  thousand  swords  to  carry 

my  bones  away, 
Belike  the  rice  of  a  jackal's  meal  were  more  than  a 

thief  could  pay. 
They  will  feed  their  horse  on  the  standing  crop, 

their  men  on  the  garnered  grain, 
The  thatch  of  the  byres  will  serve  their  fires  when 

all  the  cattle  are  slain. 
But  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  fair, — thy  brethren 

wait  to  sup, 
The  hound  is  kin  to  the  jackal-spawn, — howl,  dog, 

and  call  them  up! 
And  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  high,  in  steer  and 

gear  and  stack, 
Give  me  my  father's  mare  again,  and  I'll  fight  my 

own  wa^  back!  " 


96          THE  BALLAD   OF  EAST  AND    WEST. 

Kamal  has  gripped  him  by  the  hand  and  set  him 

upon  his  feet. 
"  No  talk  shall  be  of  dogs,"  said  he,  "  when  wolf 

and  gray  wolf  meet." 
Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son :  "  I  hold  by 

the  blood  of  my  clan : 
Take  up  the  mare  for  my  father's  gift — by  Heaven, 

she  has  carried  a  man!  " 
The  red  mare  ran  to  the  Colonel's  son,  and  muzzled 

against  his  breast, 
"  We  be  two  strong  men,"  said  Kamal  then,  "  but 

she  loveth  the  younger  best. 

So  she  shall  go  with  a  lifter's  dower,  my  turquoise- 
studded  rein, 
My  broidered  saddle  and  saddle-cloth,  and  silver 

stirrups  twain." 

The  Colonel's  son  a  pistol  drew  and  held  it  muzzle- 
end; 
"  Ye  have  taken  the  one  from  a  foe,"  said  he;  "  will 

ye  take  the  mate  from  a  friend?  " 
"A  gift  for  a  gift,"  said  Kamal  straight;  "a  limb 

for  the  risk  of  a  limb. 
Thy  father  has  sent  his  son  to  me,  I'll  send  my  son 

to  him!  " 
With  that  he  whistled  his  only  son,  that  dropped 

from  a  mountain-crest — 
He  trod  the  ling  like  a  buck  in  spring,  and  he 

looked  like  a  lance  in  rest. 
"  Now  here  is  thy  master,"  Kamal  said,  "  who  leads 

a  troop  of  the  Guides, 


MOUSE-HUNTING.  97 

And  them  must  ride  at  his  left  side  as  shield  on 

shoulder  rides. 
Till  death  or  I  cut  loose  the  tie,  at  camp  and  board 

and  bed, 
Thy  life  is  his — thy  fate  it  is  to  guard  him  with  thy 

head. 
So  thou  must  eat  the  White  Queen's  meat,  and  all 

her  foes  are  thine, 
And  thou  must  harry  thy  father's  hold  for  the  peace 

of  the  Border-line, 
And  thou  must  make  a  trooper  tough  and  hack  thy 

way  to  power — 
Belike  they  will  raise  thee  to  Ressaldar  when  I  am 

hanged  in  Peshawur." 


MOUSE-HUNTING. 

By  MARY  ABIGAIL  DODGE  ("Gail  Hamilton  "),  Author. 
B.  1830,  Massachusetts;  d.  1896. 

HERE  we  stop  for  the  night.  You  are  shown 
into  a  room  that  has  not  been  opened  since  its  occu- 
pant left  it,  and  is  unsavory  and  untidy  to  the  last 
degree.  An  appeal  to  the  gentlemanly  clerk  secures 
a  change  for  the  better;  but  there  is  a  hole  by  the 
fireplace  in  Number  Two  that  looks  suspicious. 
You  cross-examine  the  porter,  who  assures  you 
that  it  has  no  significance  whatever.  A  mouse  in 
that  room  is  an  event  of  which  history  gives  no 
record.  Nevertheless,  you  take  the  precaution  to 
stuff  the  hole  with  an  old  newspaper,  and  are  awak- 


98  MOUSE-HUNTING. 

ened  at  midnight  by  the  dreadful  rustling  of  paper. 
A  dreadful  gnawing  succeeds  the  dreadful  rustling, 
and  away  goes  a  boot  in  the  direction  of  the  sound. 
There  is  a  pause  broken  only  by  heart-throbs! 
Then  another  gnawing,  followed  by  a  boot  till  the 
supply  is  exhausted.  Then  you  begin  on  the 
pillows.  A  longer  pause  gives  rise  to  the  hope  that 
order  is  about  to  reign  in  Warsaw,  and  you  are  just 
falling  asleep  again,  when  a  smart  scratching  close 
to  your  ear  shoots  you  to  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  with  the  conviction  that  the  mouse  is  run- 
ning up  the  folds  of  the  curtain  at  the  head  of  your 
bed.  In  a  frenzy  you  ring  violently,  and  ask 
through  the  door  for  a  chambermaid. 

"  Can't  have  no  chambermaid  this  time  o'  night," 
drawls  the  porter  sleepily. 

"  Then  send  up  a  mouse-trap." 

"  Aint  no  mouse-trap  in  the  house." 

"Then  bring  a  cat!" 

"  Dunno  nothin'  about  it,"  and  he  scuffs  his  slip- 
pered feet  down  the  long  gallery,  growling  audibly, 
poor  fellow,  half  suspecting  evidently  that  he  is  the 
victim  of  a  joke;  but  alas!  it  is  no  joke. 

You  mount  sentry  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  facing 
the  enemy.  He  emerges  from  the  curtain,  runs  up 
and  down  the  slats  of  the  blind  in  innocent  glee, 
flaunts  across  the  window-seat,  flashing  every  now 
and  then  into  obscurity ;  and  this  is  the  worst  of  all. 
When  you  see  him  he  is  in  one  place,  but  when  you 
do  not  see  him  he  is  everywhere.  You  hold  fast 
your  umbrella,  and  from  time  to  time  make  vigor- 


BRIER-ROSE.  99 

ous  raps  on  the  floor  to  keep  him  out  of  your  imme- 
diate vicinity,  and  so  the  night  wears  wearily  away. 
Your  refreshing  sleep  turns  into  a  campaign 
against  a  mouse,  for  which  agreeable  entertainment 
you  pay  in  the  morning  three  dollars  and  a  half; 
and  the  gentlemanly  clerk,  with  a  pitying  smile, 
informs  you,  "  Oh,  we  cannot  help  that!  There 
are  mice  all  over  the  house!  " 


BRIER-ROSE. 

By  HJALMAR  HJORTH  BovESEN,  Novelist,  Teacher.     B. 
1848,  Norway  ;  d.  1895,  New  York. 

SAID  Brier-Rose's  mother  to  the  naughty  Brier- 
Rose: 

"  What  will  become  of  you,  my  child,  there  is  no- 
body knows. 

You  will  not  scrub  the  kettles,  and  you  will  not 
touch  the  broom; 

You  never  sit  a  minute  still  at  spinning-wheel  or 
loom." 

Thus  grumbled  in  the  morning,  and  grumbled  late 

at  eve, 
The  goodwife,  as  she  bustled  with  pot,  and  tray, 

and  sieve; 
But  Brier-Rose,  she  laughed  and  she  cocked  her 

dainty  head: 
"  Why,  I  shall  marry,  mother  dear,"  full  merrily 

she  said. 


100  BRIER-ROSE. 

"  You  marry,  saucy  Brier-Rose!     Th«  man,  he  is 

not  found 
To   marry    such    a   worthless   maid,    these    seven 

leagues  around." 
J3ut   Brier-Rose,   she  laughed,   and   she  trilled   a 

merry  lay: 
"  Perhaps  he'll  come,  my  mother  dear,  from  seven- 

teen  leagues  away !  " 

The  goodwife,  with  a  "  humph !  "  and  a  sigh,  for- 
sook the  battling, 

But  threw  her  pots  and  pails  about  with  much  vin- 
dictive rattling. 

"  Alas !  what  sin  did  I  commit  in  youthful  days  and 
wild, 

That  I  am  punished  in  my  age  with  such  a  way- 
ward child?" 

Up  stole  the  girl  on  tiptoe,  so  that  none  her  step 
could  hear, 

And,  laughing,  pressed  an  airy  kiss  behind  the 
goodwife's  ear. 

And  she,  as  e'er  relenting,  sighed:  "Oh,  Heaven 
only  knows 

Whatever  will  become  of  you,  my  naughty  Brier- 
Rose." 

Whene'er  a  thrifty  matron  this  idle  maid  espied, 
She  shook  her  head  in  warning,  and  scarce  her 
wrath  could  hide; 


BRIER-ROSE.  loi 

For  girls  were  made  for  housewives,  for  spinning- 
wheel  and  loom, 

And  not  to  drink  the  sunshine  and  wild-flower's 
perfume. 

Thus  flew  the  years  light-winged  over  Brier-Rose's 
head, 

Till  she  was  twenty  summers  old,  and  yet  remained 
unwed. 

And  all  the  parish  wondered:  "  If  anybody  knows, 

Whatever  will  become  of  that  naughty  Brier- 
Rose?" 

And  while  they  wondered  came  the  Spring  a-danc- 
ing  o'er  the  hills; 

Her  breath  was  warmer  than  of  yore,  and  all  the 
mountain  rills 

\Yith  their  tinkling,  and  their  rippling,  and  their 
rushing  filled  the  air,  • 

\Yith  the  misty  sounds  of  water  forth-welling  every- 
where. 

It  was  a  merry  sight  to  see  the  lumber  as  it  whirled 

Adown  the  tawny  eddies,  that  hissed,  and  seethed, 
and  swirled; 

Now  shooting  through  the  rapids,  and,  with  a  reel- 
ing swing, 

Into  the  foam-crests  diving  like  an  animated  thing. 

But  in  the  narrows  of  the  rocks,  where  o'er  a  steep 

incline 
The  waters  plunged,  and  wreathed  in  foam  the  dark 

boughs  of  the  pine, 


102  BRIER-ROSE. 

The  lads  kept  watch  with  shout  and  song,  and  sent 

each  straggling  beam 
A-spinning  down  the  rapids,  lest  it  should  lock  the 

stream. 

And  yet — methinks  I  hear  it  now — wild  voices  in 

the  night, 
A  rush  of  feet,  a  dog's  harsh  bark,  a  torch's  flaring 

light, 
And  wandering  gusts  of  dampness,  and  round  us 

far  and  nigh, 
A  throbbing  boom  of  water  like  a  pulse-beat  in  the 

sky. 

The  dawn  just  pierced  the  pallid  east  with  spears  of 

gold  and  red, 
As  we,  with  boat-hooks  in  our  hands,  toward  the 

narrows  sped. 
And  terror  smote  us:  for  we  heard   the  mighty 

tree-tops  sway, 
And  thunder,  as  of  chariots,  and  hissing  showers  of 

spray. 

"  Now,  lads,"  the  sheriff  shouted,  "  you  are  strong, 

like  Norway's  rock; 
A  hundred  crowns  I  give  to  him  who  breaks  the 

lumber-lock! 

For  if  another  hour  go  by,  the  angry  waters'  spoil 
Our  homes  will  be,  and  fields,  and  our  weary  years 

of  toil." 


BRIER.ROSE.  103 

We  looked  each  at  the  other;  each  hoped  his  neigh- 
bor would 

Brave  death  and  danger  for  his  home,  as  valiant 
Norsemen  should. 

But  at  our  feet  the  brawling  tide  expanded  like  a 
lake, 

And  whirling  beams  came  shooting  on,  and  made 
the  firm  rock  quake. 

"Two  hundred  crowns!"  the  sheriff  cried,  and 
breathless  stood  the  crowd. 

"Two  hundred  crowns,  my  bonny  lads!"  in  anx- 
ious tones  and  loud. 

But  not  a  man  came  forward,  and  no  one  spoke  or 
stirred. 

And  nothing  save  the  thunder  of  the  cataract  was 
heard. 

But  as  with  trembling  hands,  and  with  fainting 

hearts  we  stood, 
We  spied  a  little  curly  head  emerging  from  the 

wood. 

We  heard  a  little  snatch  of  a  merry  little  song, 
And    saw    the    dainty    Brier-Rose    come    dancing 

through  the  throng. 

An  angry  murmur  rose  from  the   people   round 

about. 
"  Fling  her  into  the  river!  "  we  heard  the  matrons 

shout; 


104  BRIER-ROSE. 

"  Chase  her  away,  the  silly  thing;  for  God  himself 

scarce  knows 
Why  ever  He  created  that  worthless  Brier-Rose." 

Sweet  Brier-Rose,  she  heard  their  cries;  a  little 
pensive  smile 

Across  her  fair  face  flitted  that  might  a  stone  be- 
guile ; 

And  then  she  gave  her  pretty  head  a  roguish  little 
cock: 

"  Hand  me  a  boat-hook,  lads,"  she  said;  "  I  think 
I'll  break  the  lock." 

Derisive  shouts  of  laughter  broke  from  throats  of 

young  and  old: 
"Ho!  good-for-nothing   Brier- Rose,   your  tongue 

was  ever  bold." 
And,  mockingly,  a  boat-hook  into  her  hand  was 

flung, 
When,  lo!  into  the  river's  midst,  with  daring  leaps, 

she  sprung! 

We  saw  her  dimly  through  a  mist  of  dense  and 
blinding  spray; 

From  beam  to  bezim  she  skipped,  like  a  water- 
sprite  at  play. 

And  now  and  then  faint  gleams  we  caught  of  color 
through  the  mist — 

A  crimson  waist,  a  golden  head,  a  little,  dainty 
wrist. 


BRIER-ROSE,  log 

In  terror  pressed  the  people  to  the  margin  of  the 

hill, 
A  hundred  breaths  were  bated,  a  hundred  hearts 

stood  still. 
For,  hark !  from  out  the  rapids  came  a  strange  and 

creaking  sound, 
And  then  a  crash  of  thunder,  which  shook  the  very 

ground. 

The  waters  hurled  the  lumber  mass  down  o'er  the 

rocky  steep. 
We  heard  a  muffled  rumbling  and  a  rolling  in  the 

deep; 

We  saw  a  tiny  form  which  the  torrents  swiftly  bore 
And  flung  into  the  wild  abyss,  where  it  was  seen 

no  more. 

Ah,  little   naughty   Brier-Rose,   thou   couldst   not 

weave  or  spin; 
Yet  thou  couldst  do  a  nobler  deed  than  all  thy 

mocking  kin; 
For  thou  hadst  courage  e'en  to  die,  and  by  thy 

death  to  save 
A  thousand  farms  and  lives  from  the  fury  of  the 

wave. 


106  ABRAHAM  LTNCOLtf. 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

By  MELANCTHON  WOOLSEY  STRYKER,  Orator,  President  of 
Hamilton  College.  B.  1851,  New  York  ;  resides  at  Clin- 
ton, N.  Y. 

Delivered  in  New  York  City  at  a  banquet  of  the  Repub- 
lican Club,  February  12,  1897. 

'  THANKS,  under  God,  to  him  whose  singular 
greatness  is  the  token  of  all  these  greetings,  we 
have  a. Republic,  undivided  and  indivisible.  '-Upon 
this  radiant  and  solemn  anniversary  you  are 
assembled  to  relight  the  torch  of  the  wide-awake 
and  the  flambeau  of  mourning,  gazing  through  all, 
upon  yonder  untorn  emblem,  the  guerdon  when 
freedom  was  re-born  and  the  guidon  of  our  for- 
ward marching.  Beautiful  flag!  Dearer  for  his 
true  sake  who  loved  and  maintained  it!  Having 
beamed  over  broken  manacles  may  it  never  blush 
over  broken  promises!  From  fort  and  fleet,  from 
school  and  capitol  and  home,  let  it  float  unsullied — 
the  morning  bloom  of  freedom  and  equal  justice  to 
all  who  hope  because  they  remember.  ^And  if  by 
foes  without,  or  direr  foes  within,  its  true  meaning 
shall  ever  be  menaced,  may  it  be  protected  and 
lifted  higher  yet  by  hands  that  shall  take  heart  of 
grace  in  recalling  him — knight  of  the  ax  and  mas- 
ter of  the  pen,  who  held  party  as  his  instrument, 
politics  as  his  opportunity,  patriotism  his  motive, 
and  the  people's  ultimate  truth  his  goal. 

What  a  personality,  and  what  a  story!  How 
exhaustlessly  fascinating  its  pathos!  At  first,  as 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  to; 

we  think  of  his  heredity  and  environment,  we  won- 
der how  such  a  man  could  have  issued  from  such 
circumstances,  but  reflecting,  we  discern  that  those 
antecedents  were  not  accidental,  but  providential, 
and  that  the  God  who  intended  the  result  furnished 
the  disciplines.  God  was  the  tutor  of  this  great 
commoner,  and  his  career  is  a  standing  rebuke  of 
dilettante  idleness,  and  freezes  the  sneer  upon  the 
thin  lips  of  caste.  He  inherited  his  father's  frame 
and  his  mother's  heart  as  his  sole  fortune.  They 
were  enough:  they  gave  him  that  courage  and  that 
sympathy  which  were  the  outfit  of  a  peerless  man- 
hood. 

Humanly  speaking,  he  was  never  "  brought  up  " ; 
he  came  up,  by  hardest  struggle  through  dismal 
lack  and  stark  necessity.  But  he  came  up,  and  up 
he  stands,  distinctly  the  typical  American  noble- 
man. And  no  cradle  of  Plantagenet  or  of  Han- 
over, of  Hapsburg,  Bourbon,  or  Brandenburg,  ever 
rocked  so  much  of  immortal  renown. 

Farm-hand,  flat-boatman,  store  clerk,  land  sur- 
veyor, militiaman,  country  lawyer — then  all  at 
once. the  heart  and  will  of  a  party;  nay,  of  a  people; 
then  the  object  lesson  of  the  world;  then  the 
lament  of  a  generation;  then  immortal!  The  path 
fitted  the  goal ! 

From  the  outset  his  remarkable  estimating  of 
men,  his  keen  perception  of  aptitude,  his  dignified 
independence,  his  finality  of  cautious  decision,  stood 
revealed.  Fast  went  the  strange,  foreboding  days. 
Then  rang  out  the  awful  trumpet.  Then  sounded 


Io8  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

out  mightily  the  first  of  those  proclamations  de- 
manding the  great  price  of  freedom;  and  from  the 
lumber  camps  of  the  Androscoggin  and  the 
Escanaba;  from  the  quarries  of  Vermont  and  New 
Hampshire;  from  the  fishing  smacks  of  Massachu- 
setts and  the  spindles  of  Rhode  Island;  from  the 
colleges  of  Connecticut  and  New  York  and  Ohio; 
from  the  mines  of  Pennsylvania  and  Michigan; 
from  the  counting  rooms  of  the  cities  of  Sam 
Adams  and  Alexander  Hamilton  and  Ben  Frank- 
lin and  cities  a  hundred  more;  from  the  Adiron- 
dacks  and  the  Alleghanies  and  the  far  Sierras;  from 
village  and  prairie  and  lakeside  and  highway,  there 
arose  the  answer  of  the  free:  "  All  up!  " 

What  words  he  spoke — this  unconditional  man! 
What  a  repertoire  are  his  untarnished  phrases  of 
patriotism  and  high  devotion!  His  proclamations 
were  battles,  conclusions,  anthems.  Apt  in  adage 
and  apothegm,  his  illustrated  speech,  so  homely 
yet  so  constructive,  was  like  that  of  JEsop.  Lin- 
coln had  that  true  oratory  which,  in  Webster's 
words,  "  does  not  consist  in  speech,  but  exists  in 
the  man,  in  the  occasion,  and  in  the  subject."  Can- 
dor, conviction,  clearness — these  were  his.  "  All 
facts  and  principles  had  to  run  through  the  cruci- 
ble of  an  inflexible  judgment." 

This  homely  oracle,  though  never  clouded  by 
abstractions,  was  withal  a  supreme  idealist.  He 
saw  above  the  storm  the  white-winged  Angel  of 
Peace,  and  therefore  he  urged  forward  the  neces- 
sary war.  His  courage  was  rooted  in  his  sublime 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  109 

faith.  "  Whatsoever  shall  appear  to  be  God's  will 
I  will  do,"  was  his  constant  attitude,  and  than  that 
naught  can  deeper  go.  Diplomat,  strategist,  mas- 
ter of  speech,  monarch  of  occasion,  humane,  be- 
lieving, often  did  he  weep,  but  never  did  he  flinch 
or  falter! 

Oh,  piteous  end!  "  Fallen,  cold  and  dead,"  the 
captain  lies.  That  face  with  all  its  rugged  honesty, 
its  homely  beauty,  its  lines  of  leadership  in  suffer- 
ing, its  august  peace  is  gone!  The  long  columns 
that  tread  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  with  the  smoke  of 
the  great  sacrifice  behind  them,  shall  not  salute  the 
chief! 

But  those  other  squadrons,  invisible,  that  crowd 
the  air — "  the  great  cloud  of  witnesses  " — there  is 
he,  passed  over  to  the  ranks  of  the  immortal  great. 
At  its  very  meridian,  snatched  from  our  skies,  that 
soul  shines  on,  and  will  shine — "  till  the  stars  are 
cold." 

The  completions  of  such  a  life  are  not  withheld — 
they  are  transfused.  We  are  to-day  what  Lincoln 
helped  us  to  become.  His  work  is  not  yet  done. 
The  tale,  fit  for  the  foundation  of  a  mighty  drama, 
worthy  of  a  deathless  epic,  will  never  be  exhausted 
"while  the  last  American  remains  who  is  a  man. 
The  hills  sink  as  we  leave  them — the  mountains 
rise.  Once  more,  all  true  Americans,  by  this  im- 
mutable renown  are  you  bidden  to  that  patriotism 
to  which  every  other  narrower  title  is  but  subordi- 
nate and  instrumental.  This  people's-man  certifies 
to  us  that  the  Republic  must  voice  the  people,  else 


HO  THE  DROP   OF    WATER. 

it  shall  sink  into  autocracy,  plutocracy,  oligarchy, 
anarchy! 

God  purge  us  of  bad  men  and  their  bad  ways! 
Still  sings  Columbia: 

"  Bring  me  men  to  match  my  mountains, 

Bring  me  men  to  match  my  plains — 
Men  with  empires  in  their  purpose 

And  new  eras  in  their  brains  ; 
Pioneers  to  clear  thought's  marshlands 

And  to  cleanse  old  error's  fen  ; 
Bring  me  men  to  match  my  mountains — 

Bring  me  men  ! " 

We  must  summon  to  our  ranks  and  be  worthy 
to  keep  there  all  who  love  our  Nation's  truth. 

"Oh,  Ship  of  State- 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope  ! 

"  Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 
Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
Are  all  with  thee, — are  all  with  thee  !  " 


THE  DROP  OF  WATER. 

{Inquisition —  Ca.  1560.) 

By  HARRY  STACK  POLE. 

THEY  have  chained  me  in  the  central  hall, 
And  are  letting  drops  of  water  fall 
On  my  forehead  so  close  to  the  granite  wall; 
Drop — drop. 


THE  DROP   OF    WATER.  "I 

They  were  cold  at  first,  but  they  now  are  warm, 
And  I  feel  a  prick  like  the  prick  of  a  thorn, 
Which  comes  with  the  fall  of  each  drop  so  warm; 
Drop — drop. 

A  circle  I  feel  beginning  to  form. 
A  circle  of  fire  round  each  drop  so  \varm, 
A  circle  that  throbs  to  the  prick  of  the  thorn; 
Drop — drop. 

The  circle  is  growing  between  my  eyes, 
Each  drop  that  falls  increases  its  size, 
And  a  flame  of  fire  upward  flies; 
At  each 

Drop — drop. 

It's  growing  larger — my  God!  the  pain 
Of  this  awful,  damnable  circular  flame, 
Cutting  its  way  through  my  throbbing  brain; 
Drop — drop. 

It's  growing  larger,  dilating  my  brain, 
Before  its  circular  throbbing  flame, 
Till  I  feel  like  a  universe  of  pain; 
Drop — drop. 

Suns  of  fire  are  falling  fast, 

Drop — drop. 
On  to  my  brain — O  God,  can  this  last? 

Drop — drop. 


112  AN  UNKNOWN  HERO. 

The  stars  of  the  universe  all  beat  time, 
As  each  raging  sun  of  heat  and  flame 
Falls  with  a  measured  throb  on  my  brain; 
Drop — drop. 

Time  has  grown  as  large  as  my  brain, 

Drop — drop. 

Ten  million  years  of  agonized  pain 
Lie  between  the  fall  of  each  sun  of  flame; 

Drop — drop. 

Something  is  coming! 

Drop — drop. 
Something  is  going  to  happen ! 

Drop — 

Something  has  snapped! 
The  falling  suns  cease! 

O  God!  can  it  be  that  you've  sent  me  release? 
Is  this  death,  this  feeling  of  exquisite  peace? 
It  is  death. 


AN  UNKNOWN  HERO. 

By  ERNEST  LUDLOW  BOGART,  Author,  Teacher.     B.  1870, 
New  York  ;  resides  at  Yonkers,  N.  Y. 

YES,   I've  worked  here,  inside  this  mine,  twelve 

years. 

Accidents?     Well,  yes!  now  and  then  they  come, 
Though  mostly  they're  hushed  up,  so  no  one  hears 
What's  happened,  'cept  the  men.     It's  troublesome 


AN   UNKNOWN  HERO.  "3 

If  one  comes  'round  the  mines  and  interferes. 
You  aint  ever  heard  how  I  lost  my  chum 
Here  in  this  valley,  have  you,  years  ago? 
I  thought  perhaps  you  might  have  heard  of  Joe. 

We  two  were  always  friends;  when  we  were  boys 
We   both    picked    slate.      Then,    as   we    grew    in 

strength 

And  years,  we  both  drove  carts,  and  in  their  noise 
We  worked  together  still,  until  at  length 
Joe  was  promoted  to  a  miner's  place, 
Which  he  refused  because  I  couldn't  go. 
Then  I  worked  harder  for  a  three-months'  space, 
And  we  was  raised  together — me  and  Joe. 

So  we  two  stuck  together,  Joe  and  me, 

Worked,  played,  ate,  slept  together,  side  by  side; 

And  when  I  married,  'twas  the  same — \ve  three 

Still  stayed  together — poor  but  satisfied. 

Each  day  Nan  filled  our  pails  with  the  same  food, 

Which  we  then  ate  together  at  the  mine; 

Perhaps  below,  in  dark,  cool  solitude, 

Or  in  the  "  breaker,"  on  some  steep  incline. 

The  first  child  that  was  born  to  me  and  Nan 
We  named  after  Joe — my  name's  just  Dan; 
And  you  couldn't  have  found  a  prouder  man 
Than  Joe,  if  they'd  made  him  a  lord  or  king, 
When  he  walked  from  church  with  the  little  thing. 
So  we  lived — Nan  and  Joe  and  me — we  three, 
And  from  Joe  not  a  bit  of  jealousy 
For  the  love  of  child — or  wife — toward  me. 


H4  AN   UNKNOWN  HERO. 

One  day  we  both  worked  at  a  vein  alone, 
Off  to  one  side  of  the  regular  run, 
When  suddenly  a  monstrous  mass  of  stone 
Followed  the  blow  of  my  pick ;  then  a  ton 
Of  coal  and  rock  rushed  down  and  shut  us  in. 
It  shut  off  the  entrance  and  blocked  the  door, 
Hurling  us  both  with  a  shock  to  the  floor, 
And  seemed  to  seal  our  graves — and  us  within. 

I  almost  was  afraid  to  call  Joe's  name, 
For  fear  he  couldn't  answer,  but  was  dead. 
But  no!     He  pulled  me  to  my  feet,  sore,  lame, 
Yet  living.     Then,  before  a  word  was  said, 
We  both  put  out  our  dim  lamp's  feeble  flame 
Which  all  too  long  upon  the  air  had  fed. 
Our  tools  were  buried,  but  we  had  one  pail 
Of  food  to  live  on  till  they  broke  our  jail. 

We  knew  we  should  be  missed  before  the  night; 

But  then  it  might  be  days  ere  we  were  found, 

And  more  before  they  could  break  through  the 

mound 

Of  rock  that  cut  us  off  from  life  and  light. 
The  air  we  breathed  might  last  us  for  a  week; 
The  scanty  pail  of  food  not  half  so  long, 
So  we  began  with  eager  haste  to  wreak 
Our  fury  on  the  walls  while  we  were  strong. 

So  four  days  went  by.     With  our  fingers  torn 
And  broken  to  the  bone,  we  still  worked  on, 
Helpless  yet  hoping,  weakened  much  and  worn; 
Our  common  store  of  food  now  almost  gone. 


AN   UNKXOWN  HERO.  "5 

Yet  Joe,  somehow,  was  weakened  more  than  me; 
Had  to  quit  work,  laid  still,  and  tried  to  skep. 
Then  three  days  more  of  awful  agony, 
While  we  could  only  wait,  and  pray,  and  weep. 

At  last,  to  me  Joe's  weakness  was  made  clear: 
One  bit  of  bread  was  left,  as  well  I  knew. 
Which  when  I  went  to  get,  with  sudden  fear 
Instead  of  one  I  found  that  there  were  two. 
My  God !  it  meant  that  he  was  dying  here, 
Starving  himself  for  me,  his  friend — me,  who 
Would  die  for  him.     It  meant  he  had  denied 
Himself  for  me — living  here  at  his  side. 

I  threw  myself  beside  him  with  a  cry, 
At  which  he  knew  I  had  found  out  the  lie 
Wrhich  he  had  lived — or  rather  died;  then  I 
Dashed  at  the  walls,  then,  bkeding,  fell  and  wept 
To  think  how  he  had  suffered,  yet  had  kept 
His  secret.     Now  he  whispered,  "  Dan,  I'm  glad 
To  die  for  you — and  Nan — and  Joe — but  sad 
To  leave  you  so.     You  make  'em  happy,  lad." 

The  next  day  they  saved  me — but  Joe  was  dead; 
Died  as  the  sound  of  the  first  pick  was  heard 
Which  broke  in  our  walls.     The  last  thing  he  said 
Was,  "  Dan — old  fellow — don't  you  say  a  word — 
To    Nan — of    this.      There    wa'n't    quite    enough 

•   bread — 

For  both."     Then  he  fainted.     His  lips  just  stirred 
With  a  whisper  of  "  Dan — kiss — little  Joe  " — 
And  he  died — died  for  me,  five  years  ago. 


1 1 6  THA  N 'A  TOP  SIS. 

Little  Joe?     Why,  yes,  that's  him  over  there 
With  his  sister.     Nan  seems  to  like  him  best 
Of  all  the  children,  and  we  both  declare 
He  looks  like  Joe.     We  have  been  blessed 
With  three,  but  something  in  his  name  or  air 
Brings  back  old  Joe.     Well,  that's  the  end — the 

rest 

Will  come.     I  aint  so  good  as  many  men, 
But  I  think,  somehow,  I'll  see  Joe  again. 


THANATOPSIS. 

By  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT,   Poet,  Editor.      B.    1794, 
Massachusetts  ;  d.  1878,  New  York  City. 

"  Thanatopsis  "  was  written  at  the  age  of  eighteen. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart; 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 


TffANATOPSlS,  U7 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 

Comes  a  still  voice.     Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 

\Yhere  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 

Xor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mold. 


Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulcher.     The  hills, 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun — the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between; 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green;  and,  poured  round 

all. 
Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 


Il8  CLOSE    TO  NINETY. 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged    to    his    dungeon,    but,    sustained    and 

soothed 

By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


CLOSE  TO  NINETY. 

By  JOHN  HOWARD  BRYANT,  Poet.  B.  1807,  Massachu- 
setts ;  lives  in  Princeton,  111. 

Only  surviving  brother  of  William  Cullen  Bryant. 

This  poem,  written  in  January,  1897,  was  evoked  by  the 
action  of  a  Bryant  literary  society  in  Belief ontaine,  O.,  in 
making  him  an  honorary  member. 

The  Rochester  Times  remarks  that  "he  is  unknown  to 
fame,  but  not  for  want  of  native  ability,  which,  judging 
from  this  freshly  written  gem,  might  have  made  him  as 
illustrious  as  his  brother." 

HERE  now  I  stand,  upon  life's  outer  verge, 
Close  at  my  feet  an  ocean  wide  and  deep, 

Dark,  sullen,  silent,  and  without  a  surge, 
Where  earth's  past  myriads  lie  in  dreamless  sleep. 

Tis  here  I  stand  without  a  thrill  of  fear, 
In  loneliness  allied  to  the  sublime; 


THE  NEW  SOUTH.  119 

The  broken  links  of  love  that  bound  me  here, 

Lie  shattered  on  the  treacherous  shoal  of  time. 
But  still  I  cling  to  friends  who  yet  remain, 

Cling  to  the  glorious  scenes  that  round  me  lie, 
Striving  to  stay  the  haste  of  years  in  vain 

As  swifter  yet  the  winged  moments  fly. 
Idly,  I  seek  the  future  to  explore, 

I  partly  know  what  is,  but  naught  that  is  before. 


THE   NEW  SOUTH. 

By  HENRY  WOODFENGRADY,  Orator,  Journalist.  B.  1851, 
Georgia  ;  d.  1889. 

From  "  The  Life  and  Labors  of  H.  W.  Grady,"  Franklin 
Publishing  Co.,  Richmond,  Va. 

A  SOLDIER  lay  wounded  on  a  hard-fought  field; 
the  roar  of  the  battle  had  died  away,  and  he  rested 
in  the  deadly  stillness  of  its  aftermath.  Not  a 
sound  was  heard  as  he  lay  there,  sorely  smitten  and 
speechless,  but  the  shriek  of  the  wounded  and  the 
sigh  of  the  dying  soul,  as  it  escaped  from  the  tu- 
mult of  earth  into  the  unspeakable  peace  of  the 
stars.  Off  over  the  field  flickered  the  lanterns  of 
the  surgeons  with  the  litter-bearers,  searching  that 
they  might  take  away  those  whose  lives  could  be 
saved  and  leave  in  sorrow  those  who  were  doomed 
to  die.  With  pleading  eyes  through  the  darkness 
this  poor  soldier  watched,  unable  to  turn  or  speak 
as  the  lanterns  grew  near.  At  last  the  light  flashed 
in  his  face,  and  the  surgeon,  with  kindly  face,  bent 


120  THE  NEW  SOUTH. 

over  him,  hesitated  a  moment,  shook  his  head  and 
was  gone,  leaving  the  poor  fellow  alone  with  death. 
He  watched  in  patient  agony  as  they  went  from  one 
part  of  the  field  to  another.  As  they  came  back 
the  surgeon  bent  over  him  again.  "  I  believe  if 
this  poor  fellow  lives  to  sundown  to-morrow  he 
will  get  well."  And  again  he  left  him,  not  to 
death,  but  with  hope;  all  night  long  those  words 
fell  into  his  heart  as  the  dews  fell  from  the  stars 
upon  his  lips — "  if  he  but  lives  till  sundown  he  will 
get  well."  He  turned  his  weary  head  to  the  east 
and  watched  for  the  coming  sun.  At  last  the  stars 
went  out,  the  east  trembled  with  radiance,  and  the 
sun,  slowly  lifting  above  the  horizon,  tinged  his 
pallid  face  with  flame.  He  watched  it  inch  by  inch 
as  it  climbed  slowly  up  the  heavens.  He  thought 
of  life,  its  hopes  and  ambitions,  its  sweetness  and 
its  raptures,  and  he  fortified  his  soul  against  despair 
until  the  sun  had  reached  high  noon.  It  sloped 
down  in  its  slow  descent,  and  his  life  was  ebbing 
away  and  his  heart  was  faltering,  and  he  needed 
strong  stimulants  to  make  him  stand  the  struggle 
until  the  end  of  the  day  had  come.  He  thought  of 
his  far-off  home,  the  blessed  house  resting  in  tran- 
quil peace  with  the  roses  climbing  to  its  door,  and 
the  trees  whispering  to  its  windows  and  dozing  in 
the  sunshine,  the  orchard  and  the  little  brook  run- 
ning like  a  silver  thread  through  the  forest. 

"  If  I  live  till  sundown  I  shall  see  it  again.  I  will 
walk  down  the  shady  lane ;  I  will  open  the  battered 
gate,  and  the  mocking-bird  shall  call  to  me  from  the 


THE  NEW  SOUTH.  1*1 

orchard,  and  I  will  drink  again  at  the  old  mossy 
spring." 

And  he  thought  of  the  wife  who  had  come  from 
the  neighboring  farmhouse  and  put  her  hand  shyly 
in  his  and  brought  sweetness  to  his  life  and  light 
to  his  home. 

"  If  I  live  till  sundown  I  shall  look  once  more 
into  her  deep  and  loving  eyes,  and  press  her  brown 
head  once  more  to  my  aching  breast." 

And  he  thought  of  the  old  father,  patient  in 
prayer,  bending  lower  and  lower  every  day  under 
his  load  of  sorrow-  and  old  age. 

"  If  I  but  live  till  sundown  I  shall  see  him  again 
and  wind  my  strong  arms  around  his  feeble  body, 
and  his  hands  shall  rest  upon  my  head  while  the 
unspeakable  healing  of  his  blessing  falls  into  my 
heart." 

And  he  thought  of  the  little  children  that  clam- 
bered on  his  knee  and  tangled  their  little  hands  into 
his  heart-strings,  making  to  him  such  music  as  the 
world  shall  not  equal  or  heaven  surpass. 

"  If  I  live  till  sundown  they  shall  again  find  my 
parched  lips  with  their  warm  mouths,  and  their 
little  fingers  shall  run  once  more  over  my  face." 
.  And  he  then  thought  of  his  old  mother,  who 
gathered  these  children  about  her  and  breathed  her 
old  heart  afresh  in  their  brightness,  and  attuned  her 
old  lips  anew  to  their  prattle,  that  she  might  live  till 
her  big  boy  came  home. 

"  If  I  live  till  sundown  I  shall  see  her  again  and  I 
shall  rest  my  head  at  my  old  place,  on  her  knees, 


122  THE  NEW  SOUTff. 

and  weep  away  all  memory  of  this  desolate 
night." 

And  the  Son  of  God,  who  had  died  for  men,  bend- 
ing from  the  stars,  put  the  hand  that  had  been 
nailed  to  the  cross  on  the  ebbing  life  and  held  on 
the  stanch  until  the  sun  went  down  and  the  stars 
came  out  and  shone  down  in  the  brave  man's  heart 
and  blurred  in  his  glistening  eyes,  and  the  lanterns 
of  the  surgeons  came,  and  he  was  taken  from  death 
to  life. 

The  world  is  a  battle-field  strewn  with  the  wrecks 
of  government  and  institutions,  of  theories  and  of 
faiths,  that  have  gone  down  in  the  ravages  of  years. 
On  this  field,  sown  with  her  problems,  lies  the 
South.  Upon  the  field  swing  the  lanterns  of  God. 
Amid  the  carnage  walks  the  Great  Physician. 
Over  the  South  He  bends.  "  If  ye  but  live  until  to- 
morrow's sundown  ye  shall  endure,  my  country- 
men." Let  us  for  her  sake  turn  our  faces  to  the 
east  and  watch,  as  the  soldier  watched  for  the  com- 
ing sun.  Let  us  stanch  her  wounds  and  hold 
steadfast.  The  sun  mounts  the  skies.  As  it  de- 
scends, let  us  minister  to  her  and  stand  constant  at 
her  side  for  the  sake  of  our  children,  and  of  genera- 
tions unborn  that  shall  suffer  if  she  fails.  And 
when  the  sun  has  gone  down  and  the  day  of  her 
probation  has  ended,  and  the  stars  have  rallied  her 
heart,  the  lanterns  shall  be  swung  over  the  field, 
and  the  Great  Physician  shall  lead  her  up:  from 
trouble  into  content;  from  suffering  into  peace; 
from  death  to  life. 


A    COURT  LADY.  123 

A  COURT  LADY. 

By  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING,  Poet.     B.  1809,  Eng- 
land; d.  1861,  Florence,  Italy. 

HER  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes  with  purple 

were  dark, 
Her  cheeks'  pale  opal  burnt  with  a  red  and  restless 

spark. 

Never  was  lady  of  Milan  nobler  in  name  and  in 

race; 
Never  was  lady  of  Italy  fairer  to  see  in  the  face. 

Never  was  lady  on  earth  more  true  as  woman  and 
wife, 

Larger  in  judgment  and  instinct,  prouder  in  man- 
ners and  life. 

She  stood  in  the  early  morning  and  said  to  her 

maidens,  "  Bring 
That  silken  robe  made  ready  to  wear  at  the  court 

of  the  king. 

"  Bring  me  the  clasps  of  diamond,  lucid,  clear  of 

the  mote; 

-Clasp  me  the  large  at  the  waist,  and  clasp  me  the 
small  at  the  throat. 

"  Diamonds  to  fasten  the  hair,  and  diamonds  to 

fasten  the  sleeves, 
Laces  to  drop  from  their  rays,  like  a  powder  of 

snow  from  the  eaves." 


124  A    COURT  LADY. 

Gorgeous  she  enter'd  the  sunlight  which  gather'd 
her  up  in  a  flame, 

While,  straight  in  her  open  carriage,  she  to  the  hos- 
pital came. 

In  she  went  at  the  door  and  gazing  from  end  to 

end, 
"  Many  and  low  are  the  pallets,  but  each  is  the 

place  of  a  friend." 

Up  she  pass'd  through  the  wards,  and  stood  at  a 

young  man's  bed: 
Bloody  the  band  on  his  brow,  and  livid  the  droop 

of  his  head. 

"  Art  thou  a  Lombard,  my  brother?     Happy  art 

thou,"  she  cried, 
And  smiled  like  Italy  on  him:  he  dream'd  in  her 

face  and  died. 


Pale  with  his  passing  soul,  she  went  on  still  to  a 
second : 

He  was  a  grave  hard  man,  whose  years  by  dun- 
geons were  reckon'd. 

Wounds  in  his  body  were  sore,  wounds  in  his  life 
were  sorer. 

"  Art  thou  a  Romagnole?  "  Her  eyes  drove  light- 
nings before  her. 


A    COURT  LADY.  125 

"  Austrian   and   priest   had  join'd   to   double   and 

tighten  the  cord 
Able  to   bind  thee,   O   strong   one, — free   by  the 

stroke  of  a  sword. 


"  Now  be  grave  for  the  rest  of  us,  using  the  life 

overcast 
To  ripen  our  wine  of  the  present  (too  new),  in 

glooms  of  the  past." 

Down  she  stepp'd  to  a  pallet  where  lay  a  face  like 

a  girl's, 
Young,   and  pathetic  with   dying, — a  deep   black 

hole  in  the  curls. 

"  Art  thou  from  Tuscany,  brother?  and  seest  thou, 

dreaming  in  pain, 
Thy  mother  stand  in  the  piazza,  searching  the  list 

of  the  slain?" 

Kind  as  a  mother  herself,  she  touch'd  his  cheeks 

with  her  hands: 
"  Blessed  is  she  who  has  borne  thee,  although  she 

should  weep  as  she  stands." 

On  she  pass'd  to  a  Frenchman,  his  arm  carried  off 
by  a  ball: 

Kneeling,  ...  "  O  more  than  my  brother!  how- 
shall  I  thank  thee  for  all? 


126  A    COURT  LADY. 

"  Each  of  the  heroes  around  us  has  fought  for  his 

land  and  line, 
But  thou  hast  fought  for  a  stranger,  in  hate  of  a 

wrong  not  thine. 

"  Happy  are  all  free  peoples,  too  strong  to  be  dis- 

possess'd  : 
But  blessed  are  those  among  nations,  who  dare  to 

be  strong  for  the  rest !  " 

Ever  she  pass'd  on  her  way,  and  came  to  a  couch 

where  pin'd 
One  with  a  face  from  Venetia,  white  with  a  hope 

out  of  mind. 

Long  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  twice  she  tried  at 

the  name, 
But  two  great  crystal  tears  were  all  that  falter'd  and 

came. 

Only  a  tear  for  Venice? — she  turned  as  in  passion 

and  loss, 
And  stoop'd  to  his  forehead  and  kiss'd  it,  as  if  she 

were  kissing  the  cross. 

Faint  with  that  strain  of  heart  she  mov'd  on  then  to 

another, 
Stern  and  strong  in  his  death.     "And  dost  thou 

suffer,  my  brother?  " 


PUBLIC  OPINION.  127 

Holding  his  hands  in  hers: — "Out  of  the  Pied- 
mont lion 

Cometh  the  sweetness  of  freedom!  sweetest  to  live 
or  to  die  on." 

Holding  his  cold  rough  hands, — "  Well,  oh,  well 

have  ye  done 
In  noble,  noble  Piedmont,  who  would  not  be  noble 

alone." 

Back  he  fell  while  she  spoke.     She  rose  to  her  feet 

with  a  spring, — 
"  That  was  a  Piedmontese!  and  this  is  the  Court  of 

the  King." 


PUBLIC  OPINION. 

By  WENDELL  PHILLIPS,  Orator.  B.  1811,  Massachusetts; 
d.  1884. 

Oration  delivered  before  the  Massachusetts  Anti-slavery 
Society,  at  the  Melodeon,  Wednesday  evening,  January 
28,  1852. 

No  matter  where  you  meet  a  dozen  earnest  men 
pledged  to  a  new  idea — wherever  you  have  met 
.them,  you  have  met  the  beginning  of  a  revolution. 
Revolutions  are  not  made;  they  come.  A  revo- 
lution is  as  natural  a  growth  as  an. oak.  It  comes 
out  of  the  past.  Its  foundations  are  laid  far 
back.  The  child  feels;  he  grows  into  a  man,  and 
thinks;  another,  perhaps,  speaks,  and  the  world 
acts  out  the  thought.  And  this  is  the  history  of 


128  PUBLIC  OPIN/6M. 


modern  society.  The  beginning  of  great  changes 
is  like  the  rise  of  the  Mississippi.  A  child  must 
stoop  and  gather  away  the  pebbles  to  find  it.  But 
soon  it  swells  broader  and  broader,  bears  on  its 
ample  bosom  the  navies  of  a  mighty  republic,  fills 
the  Gulf,  and  divides  a  continent. 

This  is  a  reading  and  thinking  age,  and  great 
interests  at  stake  quicken  the  general  intellect. 
Nothing  but  Freedom,  Justice,  and  Truth  is  of  any 
permanent  advantage  to  the  mass  of  mankind.  To 
these  society,  left  to  itself,  is  always  tending.  In  our 
day,  great  questions  about  them  have  called  forth 
all  the  energies  of  the  common  mind.  The  time  has 
been  when  men  cased  in  iron  from  head  to  foot, 
and  disciplined  by  long  years  of  careful  instruction, 
went  to  battle.  Those  were  the  days  of  nobles  and 
knights;  and  in  such  times  ten  knights,  clad  in 
steel,  feared  not  a  whole  field  of  unarmed  peasantry, 
and  a  hundred  men-at-arms  have  conquered  thou- 
sands of  the  common  people,  or  held  them  at  bay. 
Those  were  the  times  when  Winkelried,  the  Swiss 
patriot,  led  his  host  against  the  Austrian  phalanx, 
and,  finding  it  impenetrable  to  the  thousands  of 
Swiss  who  threw  themselves  on  the  serried  lances, 
gathered  a  dozen  in  his  arms,  and,  drawing  them 
together,  made  thus  an  opening  in  the  close-set 
ranks  of  the  Austrians,  and  they  were  overborne  by 
the  actual  mass  of  numbers.  Gunpowder  came, 
and  then  any  finger  that  could  pull  a  trigger  was 
equal  to  the  highest  born  and  the  best  disciplined; 
knightly  armor,  and  horses  clad  in  steel,  went  to 


PUBLIC  OPINION.  129 

the  ground  before  the  courage  and  strength  which 
dwelt  in  the  arm  of  the  peasant,  as  well  as  that  of 
the  prince.  What  gunpowder  did  for  war,  the 
printing-press  has  done  for  the  mind,  and  the 
statesman  is  no  longer  clad  in  the  steel  of  special 
education,  but  every  reading  man  is  his  judge. 
Every  thoughtful  man,  the  country  through,  who 
makes  up  an  opinion,  is  his  jury  to  which  he  an- 
swers, and  the  tribunal  to  which  he  must  bow. 

All  hail,  Public  Opinion!  Eternal  vigilance  is 
the  price  of  liberty :  power  is  ever  stealing  from  the 
many  to  the  few.  The  manna  of  popular  liberty 
must  be  gathered  each  day,  or  it  is  rotten.  Only 
by  unintermitted  agitation  can  a  people  be  kept 
sufficiently  awake  to  principle  not  to  let  liberty  be 
smothered  in  material  prosperity.  .  . 

The  Dutch,  a  thousand  years  ago,  built  against 
the  ocean  their  bulwarks  of  willow  and  mud.  Do 
they  trust  to  that?  No.  Each  year  the  patient, 
industrious  peasant  gives  so  much  time  from  the 
cultivation  of  his  soil  and  the  care  of  his  children  to 
stop  the  breaks  and  replace  the  willow  which  in- 
sects have  eaten,  that  he  may  keep  the  land  his 
fathers  rescued  from  the  water,  and  bid  defiance  to 
the  waves  that  roar  above  his  head,  as  if  demand- 
ing back  the  broad  fields  man  has  stolen  from  their 
realm. 

As  health  lies  in  labor,  and  there  is  no  royal  road 
to  it  but  through  toil,  so  there  is  no  republican  road 
to  safety  but  in  constant  distrust. 


13°  THE  FIGHT  OF  PASO  DEL  MAR. 


THE  FIGHT  OF  PASO  DEL  MAR. 

By  BAYARD  TAYLOR,  Poet,  Author,  Lecturer.     B.  1825, 
Pennsylvania;  d.  1878,  Berlin,  Germany. 

GUSTY  and  raw  was  the  morning, 

A  fog  hung  over  the  seas 
And  its  gray  skirts,  rolling  inland, 

Were  torn  by  the  mountain  trees; 
No  sound  was  heard  but  the  dashing 

Of  waves  on  the  sandy  bar, 
When  Pablo  of  San  Diego 

Rode  down  to  the  Paso  del  Mar. 

The  pescador  out  in  his  shallop, 

Gathering  his  harvest  so  wide, 
Sees  the  dim  bulk  of  the  headland 

Loom  over  the  waste  of  the  tide; 
He  sees,  like  a  white  thread,  the  pathway 

Wind  round  on  the  terrible  wall, 
Where  the  faint,  moving  speck  of  the  rider 

Seems  hovering  close  to  its  fall. 

Stout  Pablo  of  San  Diego 

Rode  down  from  the  hills  behind; 
With  the  bells  on  his  gray  mule  tinkling 

He  sang  through  the  fog  and  wind. 
Under  his  thick,  misted  eyebrows 

Twinkled  his  eye  like  a  star, 
And  fiercer  he  sang  as  the  sea-winds 

Drove  cold  on  the  Paso  del  Mar. 


THE  FIGHT  OF  PASO  DEL  MAR.  131 

Now  Bernal,  the  herdsman  of  Chino, 

Had  traveled  the  shore  since  dawn, 
Leaving  the  ranches  behind  him — 

Good  reason  had  he  to  be  gone! 
The  blood  was  still  red  on  his  dagger, 

The  fury  was  hot  in  his  brain, 
And  the  chill,  driving  scud  of  the  breakers 

Beat  thick  on  his  forehead  in  vain. 

With  his  poncho  wrapped  gloomily  round  him, 

He  mounted  the  dizzying  road, 
And  the  chasms  and  steeps  of  the  headland 

Were  slippery  and  wet,  as  he  trod: 
Wild  swept  the  wind  of  the  ocean, 

Rolling  the  fog  from  afar, 
When  near  him  a  mule-bell  came  tinkling, 

Midway  on  the  Paso  del  Mar. 

"Back!"  shouted  Bernal,  full  fiercely, 

And  "  Back !  "  shouted  Pablo  in  wrath 
As  his  mule  halted,  startled  and  shrinking, 

On  the  perilous  line  of  the  path. 
The  roar  of  devouring  surges 

Came  up  from  the  breakers'  hoarse  war; 
And  "  Back,  or  you  perish !  "  cried  Bernal, 

"  I  turn  not  on  Paso  del  Mar!  " 

The  gray  mule  stood  firm  as  the  headland: 

He  clutched  at  the  jingling  rein, 
When  Pablo  rose  up  in  his  saddle 

And  smote  till  he  dropped  it  again. 


132  THE  NATIONAL  FLAG. 

A  wild  oath  of  passion  swore  Bernal 
And  brandished  his  dagger,  still  red, 

While  fiercely  stout  Pablo  leaned  forward 
And  fought  o'er  his  trusty  mule's  head. 

They  fought  till  the  black  wall  below  them 

Shone  red  through  the  misty  blast; 
Stout  Pablo  then  struck,  leaning  farther, 

The  broad  breast  of  Bernal  at  last. 
And,  frenzied  with  pain,  the  swart  herdsman 

Closed  on  him  with  terrible  strength, 
And  jerked  him,  despite  of  his  struggles, 

Down  from  the  saddle  at  length. 

They  grappled  with  desperate  madness, 

On  the  slippery  edge  of  the  wall; 
They  swayed  on  the  brink,  and  together 

Reeled  out  to  the  rush  of  the  fall. 
A  cry  of  the  wildest  death  anguish 

Rang  faint  through  the  mist  afar, 
And  the  riderless  mule  went  homeward 

From  the  fight  of  the  Paso  del  Mar. 


THE   NATIONAL  FLAG. 

By  HENRY  WARD  BEECHER,  Clergyman,  Orator,  Author. 
B.  1813,  Connecticut;  d.  1887,  Brooklyn. 

From  "  Patriotic  Addresses,"  copyright  by  Fords,  How- 
ard &  Hulbert,  N.  Y. 

A  THOUGHTFUL  mind,  when  it  sees  a  nation's 
flag,  sees  not  the  flag,  but  the  nation  itself.  And 
whatever  may  be  its  symbols,  its  insignia,  he  reads 


THE  NATIONAL  FLAG.     ,  133 

chiefly  in  the  flag  the  government,  the  principles, 
the  truths,  the  history,  that  belong  to  the  nation 
that  sets  it  forth.  When  the  French  tricolor  rolls 
out  to  the  wind,  we  see  France.  When  the  new- 
found Italian  flag  is  unfurled,  we  see  resurrected 
Italy.  When  the  other  three-colored  Hungarian 
flag  shall  be  lifted  to  the  wind,  we  shall  see  in  it  the 
long  buried,  but  never  dead,  principles  of  Hun- 
garian liberty.  \Vhen  the  united  crosses  of  St. 
Andrew  and  St.  George,  on  a  fiery  ground,  set  forth 
the  banner  of  Old  England,  we  see  not  the  cloth 
merely:  there  rises  up  before  the  mind  the  idea  of 
that  great  monarchy. 

This  nation  has  a  banner,  too.  Not  another  flag 
on  the  globe  has  such  an  errand,  or  goes  forth  upon 
the  sea  carrying  everywhere,  the  world  around, 
such  hope  to  the  captive,  and  such  glorious  tidings. 
The  stars  upon  it  were  to  the  pining  nations  like 
the  bright  morning  stars  of  God,  and  the  stripes 
upon  it  were  beams  of  morning  light.  As  at  early 
dawn  the  stars  shine  forth  even  while  it  grows  light, 
and  then  as  the  sun  advances  that  light  breaks  into 
banks  and  streaming  lines  of  color,  the  glowing  red 
and  intense  white  striving  together,  and  ribbing 
the  horizon  with  bars  effulgent,  so,  on  the  Ameri- 
can flag,  stars  and  beams  of  many-colored  light 
shine  out  together.  And  wherever  this  flag  comes, 
and  men  behold  it,  they  see  in  its  sacred  em- 
blazonry no  ramping  lion,  and  no  fierce  eagle;  no 
embattled  castles,  or  insignia  of  imperial  authority; 
they  see  the  symbols  of  light  It  is-  the  banner  of 


134  THE  NATIONAL  FLAG. 

Dawn.  It  means  Liberty;  and  the  galley-slave,  the 
poor,  oppressed  conscript,  the  trodden-down  crea- 
ture of  foreign  despotism,  sees  in  the  American  flag 
that  very  promise  and  prediction  of  God, — "  The 
people  which  sat  in  darkness  saw  a  great  light;  and 
to  them  which  sat  in  the  region  and  shadow  of 
death  light  is  sprung  up." 

If  one,  then,  asks  me  the  meaning  of  our  flag,  I 
say  to  him,  it  means  just  what  Concord  and  Lex- 
ington meant,  what  Bunker  Hill  meant;  it  means 
the  whole  glorious  Revolutionary  War,  which  was, 
in  short,  the  rising  up  of  a  valiant  young  people 
against  an  old  tyranny,  to  establish  the  most  mo- 
mentous doctrine  that  the  world  had  ever  known, 
or  has  since  known — the  right  of  men  to  their 
own  selves  and  to  their  liberties. 

Our  flag  means,  then,  all  that  our  fathers  meant 
in  the  Revolutionary  War;  it  means  all  that  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  meant;  it  means  all 
that  the  Constitution  of  our  people,  organizing  for 
justice,  for  liberty,  and  for  happiness,  meant.  Our 
flag  carries  American  ideas,  American  history,  and 
American  feelings.  Beginning  with  the  Colonies, 
and  coming  down  to  our  time,  in  its  sacred  her- 
aldry, in  its  glorious  insignia,  it  has  gathered  and 
stored  chiefly  this  supreme  idea:  Divine  right  of 
liberty  in  man.  Every  color  means  liberty;  every 
thread  means  liberty;  every  form  of  star  and  beam 
or  stripe  of  light  means  liberty;  not  lawlessness, 
not  license;  but  organized,  institutional  liberty — 
liberty  through  law,  and  laws  for  liberty! 


DON'T  GIVE    UP.  135 

This  American  flag  was  the  safeguard  of  liberty. 
Not  an  atom  of  crown  was  allowed  to  go  into  its 
insignia.  Not  a  symbol  of  authority  in  the  ruler 
was  permitted  to  go  into  it.  It  was  an  ordinance 
of  liberty  by  the  people  for  the  people.  That  it 
meant,  that  it  means,  and,  by  the  blessing  of  God, 
that  it  shall  mean  to  the  end  of  time! 

"  Thou  hast  given  a  banner  to  them  that  fear 
thee,  that  it  may  be  displayed." 

And  displayed  it  shall  be.  Advanced  full  against 
the  morning  light,  and  borne  with  the  growing  and 
glowing  day,  it  shall  take  the  last  ruddy  beams  of 
the  night,  and  from  the  Atlantic  wave,  clear  across 
with  eagle  flight  to  the  Pacific,  that  banner  shall 
float,  meaning  all  the  liberty  which  it  has  ever 
meant!  From  the' North,  where  snows  and  moun- 
tain ice  stand  solitary,  clear  to  the  glowing  tropics 
and  the  Gulf,  that  banner  that  has  hitherto  waved 
shall  wave  and  wave  forever — every  star,  every 
band,  every  thread  and  fold  significant  of  Liberty! 


DON'T  GIVE  UP. 

By  PHCEBE  GARY,  Poet.      B.  1824,  Ohio;  d.  1871,  Rhode 
Island. 

IF  you've  tried  and  have  not  won, 

Never  stop  for  crying; 
All  that's  great  and  good  is 

Just  by  patient  trying. 


136  NATIONAL  LIFE. 

Though  young  birds,  in  flying,  fall, 
Still  their  wings  grow  stronger; 

And  the  next  time  they  can  keep 
Up  a  little  longer. 

Though  the  sturdy  oak  has  known 
Many  a  blast  that  bowed  her, 

She  has  risen  again  and  grown 
Loftier  and  prouder. 

If  by  easy  work  you  beat 

Who  the  more  will  prize  you? 

Gaining  victory  from  defeat, 
That's  the  test  that  tries  you! 


NATIONAL  LIFE. 

BY  RUFUS  CHOATE,  Orator,  Lawyer.     B.  1799,  Massachu- 
setts; d.  1859,  Nova  Scotia. 

BUT  if  you  would  contemplate  nationality  as  an 
active  .virtue,  look  around  you.  Is  not  our  own 
history  one  witness  and  one  record  of  what  it  can 
do?  This  day  and  all  which  it  stands  for — did  it 
not  give  us  these?  This  glory  of  the  fields  of  that 
war,  this  eloquence  of  that  revolution,  this  one  wide 
sheet  of  flame  which  wrapped  tyrant  and  tyranny 
and  swept  all  that  escaped  from  it  away,  forever  and 
forever;  the  courage  to  fight,  to  retreat,  to  rally,  to 
advance,  to  guard  the  young  flag  by  the  young 
arm  and  the  young  heart's  blood,  to  hold  up  and 


NATIONAL   LIFE,  137 

hold  on  till  the  magnificent  consummation  crowned 
the  work — were  not  all  these  imparted  as  inspired 
by  this  imperial  sentiment?  Has  it  not  here  begun 
the  master-work  of  man,  the  creation  of  a  national 
life?  Did  it  not  call  out  that  prodigious  develop- 
ment of  wisdom,  the  wisdom  of  constructiveness 
which  illustrated  the  years  after  the  war,  and  the 
framing  and  adopting  of  the  Constitution?  Has  it 
not,  in  the  general,  contributed  to  the  administering 
of  that  government  wisely  and  well  since?  Look 
at  it!  It  has  kindled  us  to  no  aims  of  conquest.  It 
has  involved  us  in  no  entangling  alliances.  It  has 
kept  our  neutrality  dignified  and  just.  The  vic- 
tories of  peace  have  been  our  prized  victories. 
But  the  larger  and  truer  grandeur  of  the  nations, 
for  which  they  are  created  and  for  which  they 
must,  one  day,  before  some  tribunal  give  ac- 
count— what  a  measure  of  these  it  has  enabled  us 
already  to  fulfill!  It  has  lifted  us  to  the  throne, 
and  set  on  our  brow  the  name  of  the  Great  Repub- 
lic. It  has  taught  us  to  demand  nothing  wrong, 
and  to  submit  to  nothing  wrong;  it  has  made  our 
diplomacy  sagacious,  wary,  and  accomplished;  it 
has  opened  the  iron  gate  of  the  mountain,  and 
planted  our  ensign  on  the  great,  tranquil  sea;  it 
.has  made  the  desert  to  bud  and  blossom  as  the 
rose;  it  has  quickened  to  life  the  giant  brood  of 
useful  arts;  it  has  whitened  lake  and  ocean  with 
the  sails  of  a  daring,  new,  and  lawful  trade;  it  has 
extended  to  exiles,  flying  as  clouds,  the  asylum  of 
our  better  liberty;  it  has  kept  us  at  rest  within  all 


138  MUCKLE-MOUTH  MEG. 

our  borders;  it  has  repressed  without  blood  the  in- 
temperance of  local  insubordination;  it  has  scat- 
tered the  seeds  of  liberty,  under  law  and  under 
order,  broadcast;  it  has  seen  and  helped  American 
feeling  to  swell  into  a  fuller  flood;  from  many  a 
field  and  many  a  deck,  though  it  seeks  not  war, 
makes  not  war,  and  fears  not  War,  it  has  borne  the 
radiant  flag  all  unstained;  it  has  opened  our  age  of 
lettered  glory;  it  has  opened  and  honored  the  age 
of  the  industry  of  the  people ! 


MUCKLE-MOUTH   MEG. 

By  ROBERT  BROWNING,  Poet.     B.  1812,  England;  d.  1889, 
Venice. 
By  permission  of  Hough  ton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

FROWNED  the  Laird  on  the  Lord :  "  So,  red-handed 

I  catch  thee? 

Death-doomed  by  our  Law  of  the  Border! 
We've  a  gallows  outside  and  a  chiel  to  dispatch 

thee: 
Who  trespasses — hangs:  all's  in  order." 


He  met  frown  with  a  smile,  did  the  young  English 
gallant : 

Then  the  Laird's  dame:  "  Nay,  husband,  I  beg! 
He's  comely:  be  merciful!  Grace  for  the  callant 

If  he  marries  our  Muckle-mouth  Meg!  " 


MUCKLE-MOUTH  MEG.  139 

"  Xo  mile-wide-mouthed  monster  of  yours  do   I 

marry : 

Grant  rather  the  gallows !  "  laughed  he. 
"  Foul   fare   kith   and   kin   of  you — why   do   you 

tarry?" 
"  To  tame  your  fierce  temper!  "  quoth  she. 

"  Shove  him  quick  in  the  Hole,  shut  him  fast  for  a 

week: 

Cold,  darkness,  and  hunger  work  wonders: 
Who    lion-like    roars     now,    mouse-fashion    will 

squeak, 
And  '  it  rains  '  soon  succeeds  to  '  it  thunders.'  " 

A  week  did  he  bide  in  the  cold  and  the  dark — 

Not  hunger:  for  duly  at  morning 
In  flitted  a  lass,  and  a  voice  like  a  lark 

Chirped,  "  Muckle-mouth  Meg  still  ye're  scorn- 
ing? 

"  Go  hang,  but  here's  parritch  to  hearten  ye  first!  " 
"  Did  Meg's  muckle-mouth  boast  \vithin  some 

Such  music  as  yours, mine  should  match  it  or  burst: 
No  frog  jaws!  So  tell  folk,  my  Winsome!  " 

Soon  week  came  to  end,  and,  from  Hole's  door  set 
wide, 

Out  he  marched,  and  there  waited  the  lassie: 
"  Yon  gallows,  or  Muckle-mouth  Meg  for  a  bride! 

Consider!     Sky's  blue  and  turf's  grassy: 


140  KOUNS. 

"  Life's  sweet :  shall  I  say  ye  wed  Muckle-mouth 
Meg?  " 

"  Not  I,"  quoth  the  stout  heart:  "  too  eerie 
The  mouth  that  can  swallow  a  bubblyjock's  egg; 

Shall  I  let  it  munch  mine?     Never,  Dearie!  " 

"  Not  Muckle-mouth  Meg?    Wow,  the  obstinate 
man! 

Perhaps  he  would  rather  wed  me!  " 
"  Ay,  would  he — with  just  for  a  dowry  your  can!  " 

"  I'm  Muckle-mouth  Meg,"  chirruped  she. 


ROUND. 

By  CHARLES  DICKENS,  Novelist.     B.  1812,  England;   d. 
1870. 

HAIL  to  the  merry  Autumn  days,  when  yellow 
corn-fields  shine, 

Far  brighter  than  the  costly  cup  that  holds  the 
monarch's  wine! 

Hail  to  the  merry  harvest-time,  the  gayest  of  the 
year, 

The  time  of  rich  and  bounteous  crops,  rejoicing, 
and  good  cheer! 

'Tis  pleasant  on  a  fine  Spring  morn  to  see  the  buds 
expand, 

'Tis  pleasant  in  the  Sun:mer  time  to  view  the  teem- 
ing land. 


GRANT,   THE  SOLDIER  AND  STATESMAN.      141 

Tis  pleasant  on  a  Winter's  night  to  crouch  around 

the  blaze, — 
But  what  are  joys  like  these,  my  boys,  to  Autumn's 

merry  days! 
Then  hail  to  merry  Autumn  days,  when  yellow 

corn-fields  shine, 
Far  brighter  than  the  costly  cup  that  holds  the 

monarch's  wine! 
And  hail  to  merry  harvest-time,  the  gayest  of  the 

year, 
The  time  of  rich  and  bounteous  crops,  rejoicing, 

and  good  cheer! 


GRANT,  THE  SOLDIER  AND  STATESMAN. 

By  WILLIAM  McKiNLEY,  Statesman,  ex-Governor  of  Ohio, 
President  of  the  United  States.  B.  1843,  Niles,  O. 

President  McKinley  served  in  the  Civil  War,  attaining 
the  rank  of  major,  and  at  the  close  of  the  War  entered  the 
profession  of  the  law.  Prom  1877  to  1891  he  was  a  repre- 
sentative in  Congress  from  Ohio.  He  was  elected  Gov- 
ernor of  Ohio  in  1891,  and  re-elected  in  1893.  In  November, 
1896,  he  was  elected  President  of  the  United  States. 

An  oration  delivered  at  the  dedication  of  the  monument 
to  General  Grant  at  Riverside  Park,  New  York  City,  April 
27,  1897. 

General  Grant  died  July  23,  1885,  at  Mount  McGregor, 
-N.  Y. ,  after  an  heroic  struggle  with  a  deadly  disease. 

A  GREAT  life,  dedicated  to  the  welfare  of  the 
nation,  here  finds  its  earthly  coronation.  Even  if 
this  day  lacked  the  impressiveness  of  ceremony  and 
was  devoid  of  pageantry,  it  would  still  be  memora- 
ble, because  it  is  the  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  the 


142      GRANT,   THE  SOLDIER  AND  STATESMAN. 

most  famous  and  best  beloved  of  American  soldiers. 
Architecture  has  paid  high  tribute  to  the  leaders  of 
mankind,  but  never  was  a  memorial  more  worthily 
bestowed  or  more  gratefully  accepted  by  a  free 
people  than  the  beautiful  structure  before  which  we 
are  gathered. 

In  marking  the  successful  completion  of  this 
work  we  have,  as  witnesses  and  participants,  repre- 
sentatives of  al'l  branches  of  our  Government,  the 
resident  officials  of  foreign  nations,  the  governors 
of  States,  and  the  sovereign  people  from  every  sec- 
tion of  the  country,  who  join  in  the  august  tribute 
to  the  soldier,  patriot,  and  citizen. 

Almost  twelve  years  have  passed  since  the  heroic 
vigil  ended  and  the  heroic  spirit  of  Ulysses  S.  Grant 
took  its  flight.  Lincoln  and  Stanton  had  preceded 
him,  but  of  the  mighty  captains  of  the  war,  Grant 
was  the  first  to  be  called.  Sherman  and  Sheridan 
survived  him,  but  have  since  joined  him  on  the 
other  shore.  The  great  heroes  of  the  civil  strife  on 
land  and  sea,  for  the  most  part,  are  now  dead. 
Thomas  and  Hancock,  Logan  and  McPherson, 
Farragut,  Dupont  and  Porter,  and  a  host  of  others 
have  passed  forever  from  human  sight.  Those  re- 
maining grow  dearer  to  us,  and  from  them  and  the 
memory  of  those  who  have  departed,  generations 
yet  unborn  will  draw  their  inspiration  and  gather 
strength  for  patriotic  purpose. 

A  great  life  never  dies;  great  deeds  are  imper- 
ishable; great  names  immortal.  General  Grant's 
services  and  character  will  continue  undiminished 


GRANT,   THE  SOLDIER  AND  STA  TESMAN.      H3 

in  influence  and  advance  in  the  estimation  of  man- 
kind so  long  as  liberty  remains  the  corner  stone  of 
free  government,  and  integrity  of  life  the  guarantee 
of  good  citizenship. 

Faithful  and  fearless  as  a  volunteer  soldier,  in- 
trepid and  invincible  as  Commander-in-Chief  of 
the  Armies  of  the  Union,  calm  and  confident  as 
President  of  a  reunited  and  strengthened  nation, 
which  his  genius  had  been  instrumental  in  saving, 
he  has  our  homage,  and  that  of  the  world.  We 
love  him  all  the  more  for  his  home  life  and  homely 
virtues.  His  individuality,  his  bearing  and  speech, 
his  simple  ways,  had  a  flavor  of  rare  and  unique 
distinction,  and  his  Americanism  was  so  true  and 
uncompromising  that  his  name  will  stand  for  all 
time  as  the  embodiment  of  liberty,  loyalty,  and 
national  unity. 

Victorious  in  the  work  which,  under  Divine 
Providence,  he  was  called  upon  to  do;  clothed  with 
almost  limitless  power,  he  was  yet  one  of  the  people 
— patient,  patriotic,  and  just.  Success  did  not  dis- 
turb the  even  balance  of  his  mind,  while  fame  was 
powerless  to  swerve  him  from  the  path  of  duty. 
Great  as  he  was  in  war,  he  loved  peace,  and  told  the 
-world  that  honorable  arbitration  of  differences  was 
the  best  hope  of  civilization. 

With  "Washington  and  Lincoln,  Grant  had  an 
exalted  place  in  the  history  and  the  affections  of  the 
people.  To-day  his  memory  is  held  in  equal 
esteem  by  those  whom  he  led  to  victory  and  by 
those  who  accepted  his  generous  terms  of  peace. 


144      GRANT,   THE  SOLDIER  AND  STATESMAN. 

The  veteran  leaders  of  the  Blue  and  Gray  here  meet 
not  only  to  honor  the  name  of  Grant,  but  to  testify 
to  the  living  reality  of  a  fraternal  national  spirit, 
which  has  triumphed  over  the  differences  of  the 
past  and  transcends  the  limitations  of  sectional 
lines.  Its  completion — which  we  pray  God  to 
speed — will  be  the  nation's  greatest  glory. 

It  is  right,  then,  that  General  Grant  should  have 
a  memorial  commensurate  with  his  greatness,  and 
that  his  last  resting  place  should  be  the  city  of  his 
choice,  to  which  he  was  so  attached  in  life  and  of 
whose  ties  he  was  not  forgetful  even  in  death.  Fit- 
ting, too,  is  it  that  the  great  soldier  should  sleep 
beside  the  noble  river  on  whose  banks  he  first 
learned  the  art  of  war,  and  of  which  he  became 
master  and  leader  without  a  rival. 

But  let  us  not  forget  the  glorious  distinction  with 
which  the  metropolis  among  the  fair  sisterhood  of 
American  cities  has  honored  his  life  and  memory. 
With  all  that  riches  and  sculpture  can  do  to  render 
the  edifice  worthy  of  the  man,  upon  a  site  unsur- 
passed for  magnificence,  has  this  monument  been 
reared  by  New  York  as  a  perpetual  record  of  his 
illustrious  deeds,  in  the  certainty  that,  as  time 
passes,  around  it  will  assemble,  with  gratitude  and 
reverence  and  veneration,  men  of  all  climes,  races, 
and  nationalities. 

New  York  holds  in  its  keeping  the  precious  dust 
of  the  Silent  Soldier,  but  his  achievements — what 
he  and  his  brave  comrades  wrought  for  mankind — 


PATRIOTISM.  145 

are  in  the  keeping  of  seventy  millions  of  American 
citizens,  who  will  guard  the  sacred  heritage  forever 
and  forevermore. 


PATRIOTISM. 

By  HANNAH  MORE,  Author,  Poet.      B.  1745,  England;  d. 

1833- 

Selected  from  the  tragedy,  "  The  Inflexible  Captive," 
based  on  the  opera,  "  Regulus,"  by  Metastasio,  one  of  her 
literary  models. 

Marcus  Atilius  Regulus  was  a  favorite  hero  of  the  Roman 
writers.  Chosen  a  second  time  consul  in  256  B.  c..  he  led 
a  force  against  Carthage,  and  although  at  first  successful 
he  was  finally  defeated  and  captured  255  B.  c.  After  five 
years  of  captivity  he  was  sent  to  Rome  with  the  Cartha- 
ginian envoys.  Although  his  own  safety  depended  upon 
peace  he  urged  the  Roman  Senate  not  to  grant  terms  of 
peace  to  Carthage,  and  returning  to  the  latter  city,  he  was 
put  to  death  by  the  enraged  citizens. 

OUR  country  is  a  whole,  my  Publius, 

Of  which  we  all  are  parts;  nor  should  a  citizen 

Regard  his  interests  as  distinct  from  hers ; 

No  hopes  or  fears  should  touch  his  patriot  soul, 

But  what  affects  her  honor  or  her  shame. 

E'en  when  in  hostile  fields  he  bleeds  to  save  her, 

'Tis  not  his  blood  he  loses,  'tis  his  country's; 

He  only  pays  her  back  a  debt  he  owes. 

To  her  he's  bound  for  birth  and  education, 

Her  laws  secure  him  from  domestic  feuds, 

And  from  the  foreign  foe  her  arms  protect  him. 

She  lends  him  honors,  dignity,  and  rank, 

His  wrongs  revenges,  and  his  merit  pays; 

And,  like  a  tender  and  indulgent  mother, 

Loads  him  with  comforts,  and  would  make  his  state 


146  THE  LIGHT  ON  DEADMAN'S  BAR. 

As  blessed  as  nature  and  the  gods  designed  it. 
Such  gifts,  my  son,  have  their  alloy  of  pain, 
And  let  th'  unworthy  wretch,  who  will  not  bear 
His  portion  of  the  public  burden,  lose 
Th'  advantages  it  yields;  let  him  retire 
From  the  dear  blessings  of  a  social  life, 
And  from  the  sacred  laws  which  guard  those  bless- 
ings, 

Renounce  the  civilized  abodes  of  man, 
With  kindred  brutes  one  common  shelter  seek 
In  horrid  wilds,  and  dens,  and  dreary  caves, 
And  with  their  shaggy  tenants  share  the  spoil; 
Or  if  the  savage  hunters  miss  their  prey, 
From  scattered  acorns  pick  a  scanty  meal; 
Far  from  the  sweet  civilities  of  life 
There  let  him  live,  and  vaunt  his  wretched  freedom; 
While  we,  obedient  to  the  laws  that  guard  us, 
Guard  them,  and  live  or  die,  as  they  decree. 


THE   LIGHT  ON   DEADMAN'S   BAR. 
By  EBEN  EUGENE  REXFORD,  Poet.     B.  1848,  New  York. 

THE    lighthouse    keeper's    daughter    looked    out 

across  the  bay 
To  the  north,  where,  hidden  in  tempest,  she  knew 

the  mainland  lay; 
The  waters  were  lashed  to  fury  by  the  wind  that 

swept  the  sea. 
"  Father  won't  think  of  crossing  in  a  storm  like 

this,"  said  she, 


THE  LIGHT  ON  DEADMAN'S  BAR.  147 

'  'Twould  be  death  to  undertake  it — and  yet,  when 

he  thinks  of  the  light, 
He  may  try  to  reach  the  island.     Perhaps,"  and  her 

eyes  grew  bright 
With  the  thought,  "  if  I  go  and  light  it  before  the 

night  shuts  down, 
He  may  see  it  from  the  mainland,  and  stay  all  night 

in  the  town. 
I'm  sure  that  I  can  do  it,"  she  whispered,  under  her 

breath, 
And  her  heart  was  strong  with  the  courage  that 

comes  with  the  thought  of  death 
When  it  threatens  to  strike  our  loved  ones.     "  For 

father's  sake,"  cried  she, 
"  I'll  light  the  lamp  and  tend  it.     Perhaps  some 

ship  at  sea 
May  see  it  shine  through  the  darkness  and  steer  by 

its  warning  star 

Past  the  rocks  and  reefs  of  danger  that  lie  on  Dead- 
man's  Bar." 

She  climbed  the  winding  stairway  with  never  a 

thought  of  fear, 
Though  the  demon  of  the  tempest  seemed  shouting 

in  her  ear; 
She  seemed  to  feel  the  tower  in  the  wild  wind  reel 

and  rock, 
As  it  shivered  from  foot  to  turret  in  the  great 

waves'  thunder-shock ; 
But  she  thought  not  so  much  of  danger  to  herself 

as  to  those  at  sea, 


148          THE   LIGHT  ON  DEADMAN'S  BAR. 

And  the  father  off  on  the  mainland,  as  up  the  stair 

climbed  she, 
Till  at  last  she  stood  in  the  turret  before  the  lamp 

whose  light 
Must  be  kindled  to  flash  its  warning  across  the 

stormy  night. 

'Twas  an  easy  task  to  light  it,  and  soon  its  ray 

shone  out 

Through  the  murky  gloom  that  gathered  the  clos- 
ing day  about ; 
But  a  fear  rose  up  in  her  bosom  as  the  light  began 

to  burn — 
Could  she  set  the  wheels  in  motion  that  made  the 

great  lamp  turn? 
If  the  light  in  the  tower  turned  not,  those  who  saw 

it  out  at  sea 
Might  think  it  was  North  Point  beacon  or  the  light 

on  Ste.  Marie, 
And  woe  to  the  ships  whose  courses  were  steered 

by  a  steady  light 
From  the  point  where  a  turning  signal  should  show 

its  star  at  night. 

"  If  only  my  father  had  told  me  how  to  start  the 

wheels !  "  she  cried, 
As  she  sought  to  put  them  in  motion;  but  all  in 

vain  she  tried 
To  set  the  great  lamp  turning;  the  stubborn  wheels 

stood  still. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  DEADMAN'S  BAR.         149 

"It  shall  turn!"  she  cried;  "it  must  turn!"  and 

strong  of  heart  and  will, 
She  roused  to  the  task  before  her,  and  with  her 

hands  she  swung 
The  great  lamp  in  a  circle  on  the  arm  from  which 

it  hung. 

Now  it  was  flashing  seaward,  and  now  it  flashed 

toward  the  land, 
And  those  who  saw  the  beacon  would  think  not 

that  the  hand 
Of  a  little  girl  was  turning  the  light  up  there  in  the 

storm, 
To  warn  the  ships  from  the  dangers  with  which  the 

low  reefs  swarm. 
Steadily  round  she  swung  it  as  darkness  fell  over 

the  sea; 
"  Father  will  see  it  believing  the  wheels  are  at 

work,"  laughed  she. 

Darkness  closed  in  about  her  as  round  and  round 
she  swung 

The  lamp  in  its  iron  socket.  The  tempest  demons 
sung 

Their  fierce,  wild  songs  above  her;  below  the  mad- 
dened waves 

Howled  at  the  light  that  was  cheating  the  pitiless 
sea  of  graves. 

No  thought  of  fear  came  to  her  up  there  alone  in 
the  night — 

Her  thoughts  were  all  of  the  sailors  and  the  turn- 
ing of  the  light. 


15°         THE  LIGHT  ON  DEADMAN'S  BAR. 

The  lonesome  hours  went  by  her  on  weary  feet  and 

slow; 
Sometimes,  before  she  knew  it,  her  drowsy  lids 

drooped  low; 
Then  the  thought  of  what  might  happen  if  she  let 

the  light  stand  still 
Was  like  a  voice  that  roused  her  and  sent  a  mighty 

thrill 
Tingling  through  all  her  being.     So  steadily  round 

she  swung 
The  lamp,  and  smiled  to  see  its  gleam  across  the 

dark  night  flung. 
"  I  wonder  if  father  sees  it?     If  he  does,  he's  glad," 

thought  she; 
"  It  may  be  that  Brother  Benny  is  somewhere  out 

at  sea. 
Who  knows  but  what  I  am  doing  may  save  his  ship 

and  him?" 
And  then,  for  one  little  moment,  the  brave  girl's 

eyes  grew  dim, 

But  her  heart  and  her  arm  grew  stronger  with  pur- 
pose high  and  grand 
As  she  thought  of  the  sailor  brother  whose  fate  she 

might  hold  in  her  hand. 

So  with  hands  that  never  faltered  through  all  that 

long,  long  night 
She  kept  the  great  lamp  turning  till  broke  the 

ruddy  light 
Of  morning  over  the  waters.     "  Now  I  can  sleep," 

said  she, 


THE   LIGHT  ON  DEADMAN'S  BAR.          !$! 

With  one  last  thought  of  her  father  and  the  brother 
out  at  sea; 

Then  the  hands  that  were,  oh,  so  weary!  fell  heavily 
at  her  side, 

And  she  slept  to  dream  of  the  beacon  at  the  turn- 
ing of  the  tide. 

When  she  woke  from  her  long,  deep  slumber  the 

sun  was  high  in  the  sky; 
Her  father  sat  by  her  bedside,  and  another  was 

standing  by; 
"  Benny,"  she  cried,  in  gladness,  "  did  you  see  the 

light  last  night? 
I  thought  of  you  while  I  turned  it,  and,  oh,  I  hoped 

you  might !  " 

"  My  brave  little  sister,"  he  answered,  "  do  you 

know  what  you  did  last  night? 
You  saved  the  lives  of  two  score  men  when  you 

tended  Deadman's  Light. 
'Twas  a  grand  night's  work,  my  sister — a  brave 

night's  work  to  save 

Two  score  of  home-bound  fishermen  from  a  yawn- 
ing ocean  grave. 
Over  there  on  the  mainland  they're  talking  of  you 

to-day 
As  the  girl  that  saved  the  good  ship  Jane.     '  God 

bless  the  child! '  they  say; 
And  in  many  a  home  they'll  speak",  dear,  your  name 

in  prayer  to-night, 
As  they  think  of  what  they  owe  to  her  who  tended 

Deadman's  Light." 


IS2  BE    TRUE. 


BE  TRUE. 

By  ROBERT  COLLYER,  Clergyman,  Author,  Lecturer.  B. 
1823,  England  ;  lives  in  New  York  City. 

This  poem  was  recited  at  the  conclusion  of  an  address  to 
students  at  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y.,  September  17,  1880. 

SPEAK  thou  the  truth,  let  others  fence, 

And  trim  their  words  for  pay; 
In  pleasant  sunshine  of  pretense, 

Let  others  bask  their  day. 

Guard  thou  the  fact,  though  clouds  of  night 

Down  on  thy  watch-tower  stoop. 
Though  thou  shouldst  see  thy  heart's  delight 

Borne  from  thee  by  their  swoop. 

Face  thou  the  wind:  though  safer  seem 

In  shelter  to  abide, 
We  were  not  made  to  sit  and  dream, 

The  safe  must  first  be  tried. 

Show  thou  the  light.     If  conscience  gleam, 

Set  not  thy  bushel  down, 
The  smallest  spark  may  send  a  beam 

O'er  hamlet,  tower,  and  town. 

Woe  unto  him,  on  safety  bent, 

Who  creeps  from  age  to  youth 
Failing  to  grasp  his  life's  intent 

Because  he  fears  the  truth. 


WOMAN  AS  FRIEND.  153 

Be  true  to  every  inmost  thought, 

And  as  thy  thought  thy  speech. 
What  thou  hast  not  by  striving  bought 

Presume  thou  not  to  teach. 

Then  each  wild  gust  the  mist  shall  clear 

We  now  see  darkly  through, 
And  justified  at  last  appear 

The  true,  in  Him  that's  true. 


WOMAN  AS  FRIEND. 

By  JOHN  LORD,  Clergyman,  Lecturer.  B.  1812,  New 
Hampshire;  d.  1894,  Connecticut. 

Taken  from  "  Paula,"  one  of  a  series  of  lectures  on  dis- 
tinguished women,  in  "  Beacon  Lights  of  History,"  pub- 
lished by  Fords,  Howard  &  Hulbert,  N.  Y. 

Paula  was  an  illustrious  Roman  lady  of  rank  and  wealth, 
whose  friendship  for  Saint  Jerome,  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
fourth  century,  has  made  her  historical. 

WHATEVER  the  heights  to  which  woman  is  des- 
tined to  rise,  and  however  exalted  the  spheres  she 
may  learn  to  fill,  she  must  remember  that  it  was 
friendship  which  first  distinguished  her  from  Pagan 
women,  and  which  will  ever  constitute  one  of  her 
most  peerless  charms.  Long  and  dreary  has  been 
her  progress  from  the  obscurity  to  which  even  the 
Middle  Ages  doomed  her,  with  all  the  boasted  ad- 
miration of  chivalry,  to  her  present  free  and  exalted 
state.  She  is  now  recognized  to  be  the  equal  of 
man  in  her  intellectual  gifts,  and  is  sought  out 
everywhere  as  teacher  and  as  writer.  She  may  be- 


154  WOMAN  AS  FRIEND. 

come  whatever  she  pleases — actress,  singer,  painter, 
novelist, poet, or  queen  of  society;  sharing  with  man 
the  greatest  prizes  bestowed  on  genius  and  learn- 
ing. But  her  nature  cannot  be  half  developed,  her 
capacities  cannot  be  known,  even  to  herself,  until 
she  has  learned  to  mingle  with  man  in  the  free 
interchange  of  those  sentiments  which  keep  the 
soul  alive,  and  which  stimulate  the  noblest  powers. 
Then  only  does  she  realize  her  aesthetic  mission. 
Then  only  can  she  rise  in  the  dignity  of  a  guardian 
angel,  an  educator  of  the  heart,  a  dispenser  of  the 
blessings  by  which  she  would  atone  for  the  evil 
originally  brought  upon  mankind.  Now,  to  ad- 
minister this  antidote  to  evil,  by  which  labor  is 
made  sweet,  and  pain  assuaged,  and  courage  forti- 
fied, and  truth  made  beautiful  and  duty  sacred — - 
this  is  the  true  mission  and  destiny  of  woman.  She 
made  a  great  advance  from  the  pollutions  and  slav- 
eries of  the  ancient  world  when  she  proved  herself, 
like  Paula,  capable  of  a  pure  and  lofty  friendship, 
without  becoming  entangled  in  the  snares  and  laby- 
rinths of  an  earthly  love;  but  s'he  will  make  a  still 
greater  advance  when  our  cynical  world  shall  com- 
prehend that  it  is  not  for  the  gratification  of  passing 
vanity,  or  foolish  pleasure,  or  matrimonial  ends  that 
she  extends  her  hand  of  generous  courtesy  to  man, 
but  that  he  may  be  aided  by  the  strength  she  gives 
in  weakness,  encouraged  by  the  smiles  she  bestows 
in  sympathy,  and  enlightened  by  the  wisdom  she 
has  gained  by  inspiration. 


GINEVRA.  155 

• 
GINEVRA. 

By  SAMUEL  ROGERS,  Poet.     B.  1763,  England;  d.  1855. 

IF  thou  shouldst  ever  come  by  choice  or  chance 
To  Modena,  where  still  religiously 
Among  her  ancient  trophies  is  preserved 
Bologna's  bucket  (in  its  chain  it  hangs 
\Yithin  that  reverend  tower,  the  Guirlandina), 
Stop  at  a  palace  near  the  Reggio  gate, 
Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  Orsini. 
Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 
And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses, 
Will  long  detain  thee;  .  .  . 

A  summer  sun 

Sets  ere  one  half  is  seen ;  but  ere  thou  go, 
Enter  the  house — prythee,  forget  it  not1 — 
And  look  awhile  upon  a  picture  there. 

'Tis  of  a  Lady  in  her  earliest  youth, 
The  last  of  that  illustrious  race ; 
Done  by  Zampieri — but  I  care  not  whom. 
He  who  observes  it,  ere  he  passes  on, 
Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again, 
That  he  may  call  it  up  when  far  away. 

She  sits  inclining  forward  as  to  speak, 
Her  lips  half  open,  and  her  finger  up, 
As  though  she  said  "  Beware!  "  her  vest  of  gold 
Broidered  with  flowers,  and  clasped  from  head  to 
foot, 


156  GINEVRA. 

An  emerald  stone  in  every  golden  clasp; 

And  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 

A  coronet  of  pearls.     But  then  her  face, 

So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth, 

The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart, — 

It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year  has  fled, 

Like  some  wild  melody! 

Alone  it  hangs 

Over  a  moldering  heirloom,  its  companion, 
An  oaken  chest,  half  eaten  by  the  worm, 
But  richly  carved  by  Antony  of  Trent 
With  Scripture  stories  from  the  life  of  Christ; 
A  chest  that  came  from  Venice,  and  had  held 
The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  Ancestor, 
That,  by  the  way — it  may  be  true  or  false — 
But  don't  forget  the  picture;  and  thou  wilt  not 
When  thou  hast  heard  the  tale  they  told  me  there. 

She  was  an  only  child ;  from  infancy 
The  joy,  the  pride,  of  an  indulgent  Sire; 

The  young  Ginevra  was  his  all  in  life, 

Still  as  she  grew,  forever  in  his  sight; 

And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride, 

Marrying  an  only  son,  Francesco  Doria, 

Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dress, 
She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gayety, 
Her  pranks  the  favorite  theme  of  every  tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour; 


GINEVRA.  157 

Now,  frowning-,  smiling,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preached  decorum; 
And,  in  the  luster  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 

Great  was  the  joy;  but  at  the  bridal-feast, 
When  all  sate  down,  the  bride  was  wanting  there, 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found!     Her  father  cried, 
"  Tis  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love!  " 
And  filled  his  glass  to  all ;  but  his  hand  shook, 
And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread. 
Twas  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Francesco, 
Laughing  and  looking  back,  and  flying  still, 
Her  ivory  tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 
But  now,  alas!  she  was  not  to  be  found; 
Nor  from  that  hour  could  anything  be  guessed, 
But  that  she  was  not! 

Weary  of  his  life, 

Francesco  flew  to  Venice,  and,  forthwith, 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 
Orsini  lived — and  long  might'st  thou  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandering  as  in  quest  of  something, 
Something  he  could  not  find,  he  knew  not  what. 
.  When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  awhile 
Silent  and  tenantless — then  went  to  strangers.  _ 

Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgot, 
When,  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 
'Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  Gallery, 
That  moldering  chest  was  noticed;  and  'twas  said 


I58  AMERICAN  NATIONALITY. 

By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  Ginevra, 
"  Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking-place?" 
'Twas  done  as  soon  as  said ;  but  on  the  way 
It  burst,  it  fell;  and  lo,  a  skeleton, 
With  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  emerald  stone; 
A  golden  clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of  gold! 
All  else  had  perished — save  a  nuptial-ring, 
And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy, 
Engraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 
"  Ginevra." 

There  then  had  she  found  a  grave! 
Within  that  chest  had  she  concealed  herself; 
Fluttering  with  joy,  the  happiest  of  the  happy; 
When  a  spring-lock,  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 
Fastened  her  down  forever! 


AMERICAN    NATIONALITY. 

By  RUFUS  CHOATE,  Orator,  Lawyer.  B.  1799,  Massachu- 
setts; d.  1859,  Nova  Scotia. 

An  oration  delivered  in  Boston  on  the  eighty-second  an- 
niversary of  American  Independence,  July  5,  1858. 

IT  is  well  that  in  our  year,  so  busy,  so  secular,  so 
discordant,  there  comes  one  day  when  the  word  is, 
and  when  the  emotion  is,  "  Our  country,  our  whole 
country,  and  nothing  but  our  country." 

Happy,  if  such  a  day  shall  not  be  desecrated  by 
our  service!  Happy,  if  for  us  that  descending  sun 
shall  look  out  on  a  more  loving,  more  elevated, 
more  united  America!  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  day 


AMERICAN  NATIONALITY.  1 59 

which  we  would  cherish.  It  is  our  great  annual 
national  love-feast  which  we  keep;  and  if  we  rise 
from  it  w:ith  hearts  larger,  beating  fuller,  with  feel- 
ing purer  and  warmer  for  America,  what  signifies 
it  how  frugally,  or  how  richly,  or  how  it  was  spread ; 
or  whether  it  was  a  strain  on  the  organ,  the  trumpet 
tones  of  the  Declaration,  the  prayer  of  the  good 
man,  the  sympathy  of  the  hour,  or  what  it  was, 
which  wrought  to  that  end? 

I  do  not,  therefore,  say  that  such  an  anniversary 
is  not  a  time  for  thanksgiving  to  God,  for  gratitude 
to  men,  the  living  and  the  dead,  for  tears  and 
thoughts  too  deep  for  tears,  for  eulogy,  for  exulta- 
tion, for  all  the  memories  and  for  all  the  contrasts 
which  soften  and  lift  up  the  general  mind.  I  do  not 
say,  for  example,  that  to  dwell  on  that  one  image  of 
progress  which  is  our  history ;  that  image  so  grand, 
so  dazzling,  so  constant;  that  stream  now  flowing 
so  far  and  swelling  into  so  immense  a  flood,  but 
which  burst  out  a  small,  choked,  uncertain  spring 
from  the  ground  at  first;  that  transition  from  the 
Rock  at  Plymouth,  from  the  unfortified  peninsula 
at  Jamestown,  to  this  America  which  lays  a  hand 
on  both  the  oceans — from  that  heroic  yet  feeble 
folk  whose  allowance  to  a  man  by  the  day  was  five 
kernels  of  corn,  for  three  months  no  corn,  or  a 
piece  of  fish,  or  a  molded  remainder  biscuit,  or  a 
limb  of  a  wild  bird;  to  whom  a  drought  in  spring 
was  a  fear  and  a  judgment,  and  a  call  for  humilia- 
tion before  God;  who  held  their  breath  when  a 
flight  of  arrows  or  a  war-cry  broke  the  innocent 


160  AMERICAN  NATIONALITY. 

sleep  or  startled  the  brave  watching — from  that 
handful,  and  that  want,  to  these  millions,  whose 
area  is  a  continent,  whose  harvest  might  load  the 
board  of  famishing  nations,  for  whom  a  world  in 
arms  has  no  terror — I  do  not  say  that  medita- 
tions such  as  these  might  not  teach  or  deepen 
the  lesson  of  the  day.  All  these  things,  so  holy 
and  beautiful,  all  things  American,  may  afford 
certainly  the  means  to  keep  America  alive.  That 
vast  panorama  unrolled  by  our  general  history,  or 
unrolling;  that  eulogy,  so  just,  so  fervent,  so  splen- 
did, so  approved;  that  electric,  seasonable  memory 
of  Washington;  that  purchase  and  that  dedication 
of  the  dwelling  and  the  tomb,  the  work  of  woman 
and  the  orator  of  the  age;  that  record  of  his  gen- 
erals, that  visit  to  battle-fields;  that  reverent  wip- 
ing away  of  dust  from  great  urns;  that  speculation, 
that  dream  of  her  past,  present,  and  future;  every 
ship  builded  on  lake  or  ocean;  every  treaty  con- 
cluded; every  acre  of  territory  annexed;  every 
cannon  cast;  every  machine  invented;  every  mile 
of  new  railroad  and  telegraph  undertaken;  every 
dollar  added  to  the  aggregate  of  national  or  indi- 
vidual wealth — these  all,  as  subjects  of  thought,  as 
motives  to  pride  and  care,  as  teachers  of  wisdom, 
as  agencies  of  probable  good,  may  work,  may  in- 
sure, that  earthly  immortality  of  love  and  glory  for 
which  this  celebration  was  ordained. 


JUS  MOlllER'S  SONG. 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SONG. 


ANONYMOUS. 


BENEATH  the  hot,  midsummer  sun, 
The  men  had  marched  all  day, 

And  now  beside  a  rippling  stream, 
Upon  the  grass  they  lay. 

Tiring  of  games  and  idle  jests, 
As  swept  the  idle  hours  along, 

They  called  toxone  who  mused  apart, 
"  Come,  friend,  give  us  a  song." 

"  I  fear  I  cannot  please,"  he  said; 

"  The  only  songs  I  know, 
Are  those  my  mother  used  to  sing 

For  me  long  years  ago." 

"  Sing  one  of  those,"  a  rough  voice  cried, 
"  There's  none  but  true  men  here. 

To  every  mother's  son  of  us 
A  mother's  songs  are  dear." 

Then  sweetly  rose  the  singer's  voice 

Amid  unwonted  calm, 
"  '  Am  I  a  soldier  of  the  cross, 

A  follower  of  the  Lamb.'  " 

"  Sing  us  one  more,"  the  captain  begged, 

The  soldier  bent  his  head, 
Then  glancing  'round,  with  smiling  lips, 

"  You'll  join  with  me,"  he  said. 


162  THE  AGE   OF  IMPROVEMENT. 

"  We'll  'sing  this  old  familiar  air, 

Sweet  as  the  bugle  call, 
'  All  hail  the  power  of  Jesus'  name, 

Let  angels  prostrate  fall.'  " 

Ah!  wondrous  was  the  old  tune's  spell 

As  on  the  singer  sang; 
Man  after  man  fell  into  line, 

And  loud  the  voices  rang. 

The  songs  are  done,  the  camp  is  still, 
Naught  but  the  stream  is  heard; 

But  ah!  the  depths  of  every  soul 
By  those  old  hymns  are  stirred. 

And  up  from  many  a  bearded  lip, 

In  whispers  soft  and  low, 
Rises  the  prayer  the  mother  taught 

The  boy  long  years  ago. 


THE  AGE  OF  IMPROVEMENT. 

By  DANIEL  WEBSTER,  Jurist,  Statesman,  Orator.  B.  1782, 
New  Hampshire  ;  lived  in  Massachusetts  after  1804  and  in 
Washington,  D.  C.;  d.  1852,  Massachusetts. 

Selected  from  an  oration  delivered  at  Bunker  Hill  at  the 
laying  of  the  corner  stone  of  the  monument,  June  17,  1825. 

LET  us  thank  God  that  we  live  in  an  age  when 
something  has  influence  besides  the  bayonet,  and 
when  the  sternest  authority  does  not  venture  to 
encounter  the  scorching  power  of  public  reproach. 


THE  AGE    OF  IMPROVEMENT.  163 

It  is,  indeed,  a  touching  reflection  that  while,  in 
the  fullness  of  our  country's  happiness,  we  rear  this 
monument  to  her  honor,  we  look  for  instruction  in 
our  undertaking  to  a  country  which  is  now  in  fear- 
ful contest,  not  for  works  of  art  or  memorials  of 
glory,  but  for  her  own  existence.  Let  her  be 
assured  that  she  is  not  forgotten  in  the  world;  that 
her  efforts  are  applauded,  and  that  constant  prayers 
ascend  for  her  success.  And  let  her  cherish  a  con- 
fident hope  for  her  final  triumph.  If  the  true  spark 
of  religious  and  civil  liberty  be  kindled,  it  will  burn. 
Human  agency  cannot  extinguish  it.  Like  the 
earth's  central  fire,  it  may  be  smothered  for  a  time; 
the  ocean  may  overwhelm  it ;  mountains  may  press 
it  down;  but  its  inherent  and  unconquerable  force 
will  heave  both  the  ocean  and  the  land,  and  at  some 
time  or  another,  in  some  place  or  another,  the  vol- 
cano will  break  out  and  flame  up  to  heaven.  And, 
now,  let  us  indulge  an  honest  exultation  in  the  con- 
viction of  the  benefit  which  the  example  of  our 
country  has  produced,  and  is  likely  to  produce,  on 
human  freedom  and  human  happiness.  And  let  us 
endeavor  to  comprehend,  in  all  its  magnitude,  and 
to  feel,  in  all  its  importance,  the  part  assigned  to 
us  in  the  great  drama  of  human  affairs.  We  are 
placed  at  the  head  of  the  system  of  representative 
and  popular  governments.  Thus  far,  our  example 
shows  that  such  governments  are  compatible,  not 
only  with  respectability  and  power,  but  with  re- 
pose, with  peace,  with  security  of  personal  rights, 
with  good  laws,  and  a  just  administration. 


164  OVER    THE   CROSSING. 

Our  proper  business  is  improvement.  Let  our 
age  be  the  age  of  improvement.  In  a  day  of  peace, 
let  us  advance  the  arts  of  peace  and  the  works  of 
peace.  Let  us  develop  the  resources  of  our  land, 
call  forth  its  powers,  build  up  its  institutions,  pro- 
mote all  its  general  interests,  and  see  whether  we 
also,  in  our  day  and  generation,  may  not  perform 
something  worthy  to  be  remembered.  Let  us 
cultivate  a  true  spirit  of  union  and  harmony.  In 
pursuing  the  great  objects  which  our  condition 
points  out  to  us,  let  us  act  under  a  settled  convic- 
tion, and  an  habitual  feeling,  that  these  twenty-four 
States  are  one  country.  Let  our  conceptions  be 
enlarged  by  the  circle  of  our  duties.  Let  us  extend 
our  ideas  over  the  whole  of  the  vast  field  in  which 
we  are  called  to  act.  Let  our  object  be,  our  coun- 
try, our  whole  country,  and  nothing  but  our  coun- 
try. And,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  may  that 
country  itself  become  a  vast  and  splendid  monu- 
ment, not  of  oppression  and  terror,  but  of  wisdom, 
of  peace,  and  of  liberty,  upon  which  the  world  may 
gaze,  with  admiration,  forever. 


OVER  THE   CROSSING. 

ANONYMOUS. 

"  SHINE?  shine,  sor?    Ye  see  I'm  just  a-dyin> 
Ter  turn  yer  two  boots  inter  glass, 

Where  ye'll  see  all  the  sights  in  the  winders 
'Ithout  lookin'  up  as  yer  pass — 


OVER    THE   CROSSING.  165 

Seen  me  before?     I've  no  doubt,  sor; 

I'm  punctooal  haar,  yer  know, 
Waitin'  along  the  crossin' 

Fur  a  little  un,  name  o'  Joe; 
My  brother,  sor,  an'  a  cute  un, 

Ba'ly  turned  seven,  an'  small, 
But  gettin'  his  livin'  grad'ely 

Tendin'  a  bit  uv  a  stall 
Fur  Millerkins,  down  the  ev'nue, 

Yer  kin  bet  that  young  un's  smart — 
Worked  right  in  like  a  vet'run 

Since  th'  old  un  gin  'im  a  start. 

"  Folks  say  he's  a  picter  o'  father, 

Once  mate  o'  the  Lucy  Lee — 
Lost  when  Joe  wor  a  baby. 

Way  off  in  some  furrin  sea. 
Then  mother  kep'  us  together, 

Though  nobody  thought  she  would, 
An'  worked  an'  slaved  an'  froze  an'  starved 

Uz  long  uz  ever  she  could. 
An'  since  she  died  an'  left  us, 

A  couple  o'  year  ago, 
We've  kep'  right  on  in  Cragg  alley 

A  housekeepin' — I  an'  Joe. 
I'd  just  got  my  kit  when  she  went,  sor, 

An'  people  helped  us  a  bit. 
•  So  we  managed  to  get  on  somehow; 

Joe  wus  allus  a  brave  little  chit— 
An'  since  he's  got  inter  bisness, 

Though  we  don't  ape  princes  an'  sich, 


166  OVER    THE   CROSSING. 

'Taint  of  n  we  git  right  hungry, 
An'  we  feel  pretty  tol'able  rich. 

"  I  used  to  wait  at  the  corner, 

Jest  over  th'  other  side, 
But  the  notion  o'  bein'  tender 

Sort  o'  ruffled  the  youngster's  pride, 
So  now  I  only  watches 

To  see  that  he's  safe  across — 
Sometimes  it's  a  bit  o'  waitin', 

But,  bless  yer,  'taint  no  loss! 
Look!  there  he  is  now,  the  rascal! 

Dodgin'  across  the  street, 
Ter  s'prise  me — an' — look!     I'm  goin'— 

He's  down  bv  the  horses'  feet!  " 

Suddenly  all  had  happened — 

The  look,  the  cry,  the  spring, 
The  shielding  Joe  as  a  bird  shields 

Its  young  with  sheltering  wing; 
Then  up  the  full  street  of  the  city 

A  pause  in  the  coming  rush, 
And  through  all  the  din  and  the  tumult 

A  painful  minute  of  hush ; 
A  tumble  of  scattered  brushes, 

As  they  lifted  him  up  to  the  walk, 
A  gathering  of  curious  faces, 

And  snatches  of  whispered  talk; 
Little  Joe  all  trembling  beside  him 

On  the  flagging,  with  gentle  grace 
Pushing  the  tangled,  soft  brown  hair 

Away  from  the  still,  white  face. 


EDUCATION.  167 

At  his  touch  the  shut  lids  lifted, 

And  swift  over  lip  and  eye 
Came  a  glow  as  when  the  morning 

Flushes  the  eastern  sky; 
And  a  hand  reached  out  to  his  brother, 

As  the  words  came  low  but  clear: 
"  Joe,  I  reckon  ye  mind  our  mother — 

A  minute  back  she  wor  here, 
Smilin'  an'  callin'  me  to  her! 

I  tell  ye,  I'm  powerful  glad 
Yer  such  a  brave,  smart  youngster, 

The  leavin'  yer  aint  so  bad; 
Hold  hard  to  the  right  things  she  learnt  us, 

An'  allus  keep  honest  an'  true; 
Good-by,  Joe — but  mind,  I'll  be  watohin' 

Just — over — the  crossin' — fur  you!  " 


EDUCATION. 

By  JOHN  RUSKIN,  Author,  Critic.  B.  London,  1819. 
"The  most  eloquent  and  original  of  all  writers  upon  art." 

An  extract  from  "The  Stones  of  Venice,"  published 
1851-53- 

EDUCATION,  then,  briefly,  is  the  leading  human 
souls  to  what  is  best,  and  making  what  is  best  out 
of  them;  and  these  two  objects  are  always  attain- 
able together,  and  by  the  same  means;  the  training 
which  makes  men  happiest  in  themselves  also 
makes  them  most  serviceable  to  others.  True  edu- 
cation, then,  has  respect,  first  to  the  ends  which  are 


1 68  EDUCATION. 

proposable  to  the  man,  or  attainable  by  him;  and, 
secondly,  to  the  material  of  which  the  man  is  made. 
So  far  as  it  is  able,  it  chooses  the  end  according  to 
the  material:  but  it  cannot  always  choose  the  end, 
for  the  position  of  many  persons  in  life  is  fixed  by 
necessity;  still  less  can  it  choose  the  material;  and, 
therefore,  all  it  can  do  is  to  fit  the  one  to  the  other 
as  wisely  as  may  be. 

But  the  first  point  to  be  understood  is  that  the 
material  is  as  various  as  the  ends;  that  not  only 
one  man  is  unlike  another,  but  every  man  is  essen- 
tially different  from  every  other,  so  that  no  train- 
ing, no  forming,  nor  informing,  will  ever  make  two 
persons  alike  in  thought  or  in  power.  One  man  is 
made  of  agate,  another  of  oak;  one  of  slate,  an- 
other of  clay.  The  education  of  the  first  is  polish- 
ing; of  the  second,  seasoning;  of  the  third,  rending; 
of  the  fourth,  molding.  It  is  of  no  use  to  season 
the  agate;  it  is  vain  to  try  to  polish  the  slate;  but 
both  are  fitted,  by  the  qualities  they  possess,  for 
services  in  which  they  may  be  honored. 

One  great  fallacy  into  which  men  are  apt  to  fall 
when  they  are  reasoning  on  this  subject  is:  that 
light,  as  such,  is  always  good;  and  darkness,  as 
such,  always  evil.  Far  from  it.  Light  untempered 
would  be  annihilation.  It  is  good  to  them  that  sit 
in  darkness  and  in  the  shadow  of  death;  but,  to 
those  that  faint  in  the  wilderness,  so  also  is  the 
shadow  of  the  great  rock  in  a  weary  land.  If  the 
sunshine  is  good,  so  also  is  the  cloud  of  the  latter 
rain.  Light  is  only  beautiful,  only  available  for 


POOR-HOUSE  NAtf.  169 

life  when  it  is  tempered  with  shadow;  pure  light  is 
fearful,  and  unendurable  by  humanity.  And  it  is 
not  less  ridiculous  to  say  that  light,  as  such,  is  good 
in  itself,  than  to  say  that  darkness  is  good  in  itself. 
Both  are  rendered  safe,  healthy,  and  useful  by  the 
other;  the  night  by  the  day,  the  day  by  the  night; 
and  we  could  just  as  easily  live  without  dawn  as 
without  sunset,  as  long  as  we  are  human.  Of  the 
celestial  city  we  are  told  that  there  shall  be  "  no 
night  there,"  and  then  we.  shall  know  even  as  also 
we  are  known:  but  the  night  and  the  mystery  have 
both  their  service  here;  and  our  business  is  not  to 
strive  to  turn  the  night  into  day,  but  to  be  sure  that 
we  are  as  they  that  watch  for  the  morning. 


POOR-HOUSE  NAN. 
By  LUCY  M.  BLIJJN. 

DID  you  say  you  wished  to  see  me,  sir?    Step  in; 

'tis  a  cheerless  place, 
But  you're  heartily  welcome  all  the  same;  to  be 

poor  is  no  disgrace! 
Have  I  been  here  long?     Oh,  yes,  sir!  'tis  thirty 

winters  gone 
Since  poor  Jim  took  to  crooked  ways  and  left  me 

all  alone! 
Jim  was  my  son,  and  a  likelier  lad  you'd  never  wish 

to  see, 
Till  evil  counsels  won  his  heart  and  led  him  away 

from  me. 


170  POOR- HO  USE  NAN. 

'Tis  the  old,  sad,  pitiful  story,  sir,  of  the  devil's 

winding  stair, 
And   men   go   down — and    down — and    down — to 

blackness  and  despair; 
Tossing  about  like  wrecks  at  sea,  with  helm  and 

anchor  lost, 
On  and  on,  through  the  surging  waves,  nor  caring 

to  count  the  cost; 
I  doubt  sometimes  if  the  Saviour  sees,  He  seems  so 

far  away,  . 

How  the  souls  He  loved  and  died  for,  are  drifting — 

drifting  astray! 

Indeed,  'tis  little  wonder,  sir,  if  woman  shrinks  and 
cries, 

When  the  life-blood  on  Rum's  altar  spilled  is  call- 
ing to  the  skies! 

Small  wonder  if  her  own  heart  feels  each  sacrificial 
blow, 

For  isn't  each  life  a  part  of  hers?  each  pain  her  hurt 
and  woe? 

Read  all  the  records  of  crimes  and  shame — 'tis  bit- 
terly, sadly  true; 

Where  manliness  and  honor  die,  there  some 
woman's  heart  dies  too. 

I  often  think,  when  I  hear  folks  talk  so  prettily  and 

so  fine 
Of  "alcohol  as  needful  food";  of  the  "moderate 

use  of  wine  "; 
How  "  the  world  couldn't  do  without  it,  there  was 

clearly  no  other  way 


POOR-HOUSE  NAN.  171 

But  for  man  to  drink,  or  let  it  alone,  as  his  own 

strong  will  might  say," 
That  "  to  use  it,  but  not  abuse  it,  was  the  proper 

thing  to  do  "; 
How  I  wish  they'd  let  old  Poor-house  Nan  preach 

her  little  sermon  too ! 

I  would  give  them  scenes  in  a  woman's  life  that 

would  make  their  pulses  stir, 
For  I   was  a  drunkard's   child   and  wife — aye,   a 

drunkard's  mother,  sir! 
I  would  tell  of  childish  terrors,  of  childish  tears  and 

pain, 
Of  cruel  blows  from  a  father's  hand  when  rum  had 

crazed  his  brain; 
He  always  said  he  could  drink  his  fill,  or  let  it 

alone,  as  well; 
Perhaps  he  might,  he  was  killed  one  night  in  a 

brawl — in  a  grogshop  hell! 

I  would  tell  of  years  of  loveless  toil  the  drunkard's 

child  had  passed, 
With  just  one  gleam  of  sunshine,  too  beautiful  to 

last. 
When  I  married  Tom  I  thought  for  sure  I  had 

nothing  more  to  fear; 
.That  life  would  come  all  right  at  last;  the  world 

seemed  full  of  cheer. 
But  he  took  to  moderate  drinking.     He  allowed 

'twas  a  harmless  thing, 
So  the  arrow  sped,  and  my  bird  of  Hope  came 

down  with  a  broken  wing! 


172  POOR-HOUSE  NAN. 

Tom  was  only  a  moderate  drinker;  ah,  sir,  do  you 
bear  in  mind 

How  the  plodding  tortoise  in  the  race  left  the  leap- 
ing hare  behind? 

'Twas  because  he  held  right  on  and  on,  steady  and 
true,  if  slow, 

And  that's  the  way,  I'm  thinking,  that  the  moder- 
ate drinkers  go ! 

Step  over  step — day  after  day — with  sleepless,  tire- 
less pace, 

While  the  toper  sometimes  looks  behind  and  tarries 
in  the  race! 


Ah,  heavily  in  the  well-worn  path  poor  Tom  walked 

day  by  day, 
For    my    heartstrings    clung   about    his    feet    and 

tangled  up  the  way; 
The  days  were  dark,  and  friends  were  gone,  and  life 

dragged  on  full  slow, 
And  children  came,  like  reapers,  and  to  a  harvest 

of  want  and  woe ! 
Two  of  them  died,  and  I  was  glad  when  they  lay 

before  me  dead; 
I  had  grown  so  weary  of  their  cries — their  pitiful 

cries  for  bread. 

There  came  a  time  when  my  heart  was  stone:  I 

could  neither  hope  nor  pray; 
Poor  Tom  lay  out  in  the  Potter's  field,  and  my  boy 

had  gone  astray; 


POOR-HOUSE  NAN.  173 

My  boy  who'd  been  my  idol,  while,  like  hounds 
athirst  for  blood, 

Between  my  breaking  heart  and  him  the  liquor- 
seller  stood, 

And  lured  him  on  with  pleasant  words,  his  pleas- 
ures and  his  wine : 

Ah,  God !  have  pity  on  other  hearts,  as  bruised  and 
hurt  as  mine. 


There  were  whispers  of  evil-doing,  of  dishonors, 

and  of  shame, 
That  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  now,  and  would  not 

dare  to  name! 
There  was  hiding  away  from  the  light  of  day,  there 

was  creeping  about  at  night, 
A    hurried    word    of    parting — then    a    criminal's 

stealthy  flight ! 
His  lips  were  white  with  remorse  and  fright  when 

he  gave  me  his  good-by  kiss; 
And  I've  never  seen  my  poor  lost  boy  from  that 

black  day  to  this. 

Ah!  none  but  a  mother  can  tell  you,  sir,  how  a 

mother's  heart  will  ache, 
With  the  sorrow  that  comes  of  a  sinning  child,  with 

grief  for  a  lost  one's  sake, 
\Yhen  she  knows  the  feet  she  trained  to  walk  have 

gone  so  far  astray, 
And  the  lips  grown  bold  with  curses  that  she  taught 

to  sing  and  pray; 


!?4  POOR-HOUSE  NAN. 

A  child  may  fear — a  wife  may  weep,  but  of  all  sad 
things,  none  other 

Seems  half  so  sorrowful  to  me  as  being  a  drunk- 
ard's mother. 


They  tell  me  that  down  in  the  vilest  dens  of  the 

city's  crime  and  murk, 
There  are  men  with  the  hearts  of  angels,  doing  the 

angels'  work; 
That  they  win  back  the  lost  and  the  straying,  that 

they  help  the  weak  to  stand 
By  the  wonderful  power  of  loving  words — and  the 

help  of  God's  right  hand! 
And  often  and  often,  the  dear  Lord  knows,  I've 

knelt  and  prayed  to  Him, 
That  somewhere,  somehow,  'twould  happen,  that 

they'd  find  and  save  my  Jim ! 

You'll  say  'tis  a  poor  old  woman's  whim ;  but  when 

I  prayed  last  night, 
Right   over   yon    eastern   window   there   shone   a 

wonderful  light! 
(Leastways  it  looked  that  way  to  me)  and  out  of  the 

light  there  fell 
The  softest  voice  I  had  ever  heard;  it  rung  like  a 

silver  bell; 
And  these  were  the  words:  "The  prodigal  turns, 

so  tired  by  want  and  sin, 
He  seeks  his  father's  open  door — he  weeps — and 

enters  in." 


LO.VDOX  HOUSE-TOPS.  175 

Why,  sir,  you're  crying  as  hard  as  I;  what — is  it 

really  done? 
Have   the   loving   voice   and   the    Helping   Hand 

brought  back  my  wandering  son? 
Did  you  kiss  me  and  call  me  '"  Mother  " — and  hold 

me  to  your  breast, 
Or  is  it  one  of  the  taunting  dreams  that  come  to 

mock  my  rest? 
Xo — no!  thank  God,  'tis  a  dream  come  true!  I  can 

die,  for  He's  saved  my  boy!  .  .  . 


.      LONDON  HOUSE-TOPS. 

By  SIR  EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON.     Novelist,  Statesman. 
B.  1805,  England;  d.  1873. 
An  extract  from  his  novel,  "  The  Caxtons." 

IT  is  not  enough  to  secure  a  lodging  in  the  attic; 
your  attic  must  be  unequivocally  a  back  attic;  the 
house  in  which  it  is  located  must  be  slightly  ele- 
vated above  its  neighbors;  the  sight  must  be  so 
humored  that  you  cannot  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
pavements:  if  you  once  see  the  world  beneath,  the 
whole  charm  of  that  world  above  is  destroyed. 
Taking  for  granted  that  you  have  secured  these 
requisites,  open  your  window  and  contemplate  the 
extraordinary  scene  which  spreads  before  you. 
You  find  it  difficult  to  believe  life  can  be  so  tran- 
quil on  high  while  it  is  so  noisy  and  turbulent  be- 
low. Eliot  Warburton  recommends  you  to  sail 
down  the  Nile  if  you  want  to  lull  the  vexed  spirit. 


176  LONDON  HOUSE-TOPS. 

It  is  easier  and  cheaper  to  hire  an  attic  in  Holborn! 
You  don't  have  the  crocodiles,  but  you  have  ani- 
mals no  less  hallowed  in  Egypt — the  cats!  And 
how  harmoniously  the  tranquil  creatures  blend 
with  the  prospect — how  noiselessly  they  glide  along 
at  the  distance,  pause,  peer  about,  and  disappear. 
It  is  only  from  the  attic  that  you  can  appreciate  the 
picturesque  which  belong  to  our  domesticated 
tigerskin!  The  goat  should  be  seen  on  the  Alps, 
and  the  cat  on  the  house-top. 

Look  at  that  desolate  house  with  no  roof  at  all — 
gutted  and  skinned  by  the  last  London  fire!  You 
can  see  the  poor  white-and-green  paper  still  cling- 
ing to  walls  and  the  chasm  that  was  once  a 
cupboard,  and  the  shadows  gathering  black  on  the 
aperture  that  was  once  a  hearth.  Seen  above,  what 
a  compassionate,  inquisitive  charm  in  the  skeleton 
ruin!  How  your  fancy  runs  riot — re-peopling  the 
chambers,  hearing  the  last  cheerful  good-night 
of  that  destined  Pompeii — creeping  on  tiptoe  with 
the  mother,  when  she  gives  her  farewell  look  to  the 
baby.  Now  all  is  midnight  and  silence;  then  the 
red,  crawling  serpent  comes  out.  Lo!  his  breath; 
hark!  his  hiss.  Now,  spire  after  spire  he  winds 
and  he  coils;  now  he  soars  up  erect — crest  superb 
and  forked  tongue — the  beautiful  horror!  Then 
the  start  from  the  sleep,  and  the  doubtful  awaking, 
and  the  run  here  and  there,  and  the  mother's  rush 
to  the  cradle;  the  cry  from  the  window  and  the 
knock  at  tne  door,  and  the  spring  of  those  on  high 
toward  the  stair  that  leads  to  safety  below,  and  the 


LONDON  HOUSE-TOPS.  177 

smoke  rushing  up !  And  they  run  back  stifled  and 
blinded,  and  the  floor  heaves  beneath  them  like  a 
bark  on  the  sea.  Hark!  the  grating  wheels  thun- 
dering low;  near  and  nearer  comes  the  engine. 
Fix  the  ladders! — there!  there!  at  the  window, 
where  the  mother  stands  with  the  babe!  Splash 
and  hiss  comes  the  water;  pales,  then  flares  out 
the  fire;  foe  defies  foe;  element,  element.  How 
sublime  is  the  war!  But  the  ladder!  the  ladder! — 
there  at  the  window !  All  else  are  saved ;  the  clerk 
and  his  books!  the  lawyer  with  that  tin  box  of  title- 
deeds;  the  landlord,  with  his  policy  of  insurance; 
the  miser,  with  his  banknotes  and  gold;  all  are 
saved — all,  but  the  babe  and  the  mother.  What  a 
crowd  in  the  streets!  how  the  light  crimsons  over 
the  gazers,  hundreds  on  hundreds!  All  those  faces 
seem  as  one  face,  with  fear.  Not  a  man  mounts 
the  ladder.  Yes,  there — gallant  fellow!  God  in- 
spires— God  shall  speed  thee!  How  plainly  I  see 
him!  His  eyes  are  closed,  his  teeth  set.  The  ser- 
pent leaps  up,  the  forked  tongue  darts  upon  him, 
and  the  reek  of  its  breath  wraps  him  around.  The 
crowrd  has  ebbed  back  like  a  sea,  and  the  smoke 
rushes  over  all.  Ha !  what  dim  forms  are  those  on 
the  ladder?  Near  and  nearer — crash  come  the 
roof-tiles.  Alas,  and  alas!  no!  a  cry  of  joy — a 
"  Thank  Heaven!  "  and  the  women  force  their  way 
through  the  men  to  come  round  the  child  and 
mother. 


1 78  TO  A    SKELETON. 

TO   A  SKELETON. 

ANONYMOUS. 

[The  MS.  of  this  poem,  which  appeared  during  the  first 
quarter  of  the  present  century,  was  said  to  have  been  found 
in  the  Museum  of  the  Royal  College  of  Surgeons,  in  Lon- 
don, near  a  perfect  human  skeleton,  and  to  have  been  sent 
by  the  curator  to  the  Morning  Chronicle  for  publication. 
It  excited  so  much  attention  that  every  effort  was  made  to 
discover  the  author,  and  a  responsible  party  went  so  far  as 
to  offer  a  reward  of  fifty  guineas  for  information  that  would 
discover  its  origin.  The  author  preserved  his  incognito, 
and,  we  believe,  has  never  been  discovered.] 

BEHOLD  this  ruin!     Twas  a  skull 
Once  of  ethereal  spirit  full: 
This  narrow  cell  was  Life's  retreat, 
This  space  was  Thought's  mysterious  seat. 
What  beauteous  visions  filled  this  spot, 
What  dreams  of  pleasure  long  forgot? 
Nor  hope,  nor  joy,  nor  love,  nor  fear, 
Have  left  one  trace  of  record  here. 

Beneath  this  moldering  canopy 

Once  shone  the  bright  and  busy  eye. 

But  start  not  at  the  dismal  void, — 

If  social  love  that  eye  employed, 

If  with  no  lawless  fire  it  gleamed, 

But  through  the  dews  of  kindness  beamed, 

That  eye  shall  be  forever  bright 

When  stars  and  sun  are  sunk  in  night. 

Within  this  hollow  cavern  hung 
The  ready,  swift,  and  tuneful  tongue; 


TO  A    SKELETON.  179 

If  Falsehood's  honey  it  disdained, 

And  when  it  could  not  praise  was  chained; 

If  bold  in  Virtue's  cause  it  spoke, 

Yet  gentle  concord  never  broke, — 

This  silent  tongue  shall  plead  for  thee 

When  time  unveils  Eternity! 

Say,  did  these  fingers  delve  the  mine, 
Or  with  the  envied  rubies  shine? 
To  hew  the  rock  or  wear  a  gem 
Can  little  now  avail  to  them, 
But  if  the  page  of  Truth  they  sought, 
Or  comfort  to  the  mourner  brought, 
These  hands  a  richer  meed  shall  claim 
Than  all  that  wait  on  Wealth  and  Fame. 

Avails  it  whether  bare  or  shod 
These  feet  the  paths  of  duty  trod? 
If  from  the  bowers  of  Ease  they  fled, 
To  seek  Affliction's  humble  shed; 
If  Grandeur's  guilty  bribe  they  spurned, 
And  home  to  Virtue's  cot  returned, — 
These  feet  with  angel  wings  shall  vie, 
And  tread  the  palace  of  the  sky ! 


l8o  WHO  PLANTS  A    TREE. 


WHO   PLANTS  A  TREE. 

By  LUCY  LARCOM,  Poet,  Editor.     B.  1826,  Massachusetts. 
Resides  at  Beverly,  Mass. 

HE  who  plants  a  tree 

Plants  a  hope. 

Rootlets  up  through  fibers  blindly  grope; 
Leaves  unfold  into  horizons  free. 

So  man's  life  must  climb 

From  the  clods  of  time 

Unto  heavens  sublime. 
Canst  thou  prophesy,  thou  little  tree, 
What  the  glory  of  thy  boughs  shall  be? 

He  who  plants  a  tree 

Plants  a  joy; 

Plants  a  comfort  that  will  never  cloy. 
Every  day  a  fresh  reality, 

Beautiful  and  strong, 

To  whose  shelter  throng 

Creatures  blithe  with  song. 
If  thou  coulds^  but  know,  thou  happy  tree, 
Of  the  bliss  that  shall  inhabit  thee! 

He  who  plants  a  tree, 

He  plants  peace; 

Under  its  green  curtains  jargons  cease, 
Leaf  and  zephyr  murmur  soothingly; 

Shadows  soft  with  sleep 

Down  tired  eyelids  creep, 

Balm  of  slumber  deep. 


CHRISTIAN  CITIZENSHIP.  1 8 

Never  hast  thou  dreamed,  thou  blessed  tree, 
Of  the  benediction  thou  shalt  be. 

He  who  plants  a  tree, 

He  plants  love ; 

Tents  of  coolness  spreading  out  above 
Wayfarers  he  may  not  live  to  see. 

Gifts  that  grow  are  best; 

Hands  that  bless  are  blest. 

Plant-life  does  the  rest. 

Heaven  and  earth  help  him  who  plants  a  tree, 
And  his  work  its  own  reward  shall  be. 


CHRISTIAN  CITIZENSHIP. 

By  WENDELL  PHILLIPS,  Orator.  B.  1811,  Massachusetts; 
d.  1884. 

EPHESUS  was  upside  down.  The  manufacturers 
of  silver  boxes  for  holding  heathen  images  had  col- 
lected their  laborers  together  to  discuss  the  be- 
havior of  one  Paul,  who  had  been  in  public  places 
assaulting  image-worship,  and  consequently  very 
much  damaging  their  business.  There  was  a  great 
excitement  in  the  city.  People  stood  in  knots  along 
the  street,  violently  gesticulating,  and  calling  one 
another  hard  names.  Some  of  the  people  favored 
the  policy  of  the  silversmiths;  others,  the  policy  of 
Paul. 

Finally  they  called  a  convention.     When  they 


1 82  CHRISTIAN  CITIZENSHIP. 

assembled,  they  all  wanted  the  floor,  and  all  wanted 
to  talk  at  once.  Some  wanted  to  denounce,  some 
to  resolve.  At  last  the  convention  rose  in  a  body, 
all  shouting  together,  till  some  were  red  in  the  face 
and  sore  in  the  throat,  "  Great  is  Diana  of  the 
Ephesians!  Great  is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians!  " 

Well,  the  whole  scene  reminds  me  of  the  excite- 
ment we  witness  at  the  autumnal  elections.  While 
the  goddess  Diana  has  lost  her  worshipers,  our 
American  people  want  to  set  up  a  god  in  place  of 
it,  and  call  it  political  party.  While  there  are  true 
men,  Christian  men,  standing  in  both  political  par- 
ties, who  go  into  the  elections  resolved  to  serve 
their  city,  their  State,  their  country,  in  the  best  pos- 
sible way,  yet  in  the  vast  majority  it  is  a  question 
between  the  pease  and  the  oats.  One  party  cries, 
"  Great  is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians!  "  and  the  other 
party  cries,  "Great  is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians!" 
when  in  truth  both  are  crying,  if  they  were  but 
honest  enough  to  admit  it,  "  Great  is  my  pocket- 
book!" 

What  is  the  duty  of  Christian  citizenship?  If 
the  Norwegian  boasts  of  his  home  of  rocks,  and  the 
Siberian  is  happy  in  his  land  of  perpetual  snow, — 
if  the  Roman  thought  the  muddy  Tiber  was  the 
favored  river  of  heaven,  and  the  Chinese  pities 
everybody  born  out  of  the  Flowery  Kingdom, — 
shall  not  he,  in  this  land  of  glorious  liberty,  have 
some  thought  and  love  for  country?  There  is  a 
power  higher  than  the  ballot-box,  the  "guberna- 
torial chair,  or  the  President's  house.  To  preserve 


CHRISTIAN  CITIZENSHIP.  183 

the  institutions  of  our  country,  we  must  recognize 
this  power  in  our  politics. 

See  how  men  make  every  effort  to  clamber  into 
higher  positions,  but  are  cast  down.  God  opposes 
them.  Every  man,  every  nation,  that  proved  false 
to  divine  expectation,  down  it  went.  God  said  to 
the  house  of  Bourbon,  "  Remodel  France,  and 
establish  equity."  It  would  not  do  it.  Down  it 
went.  God  said  to  the  house  of  Stuart,  "  Make 
the  people  of  England  happy."  It  would  not  do  it. 
Down  it  went.  He  said  to  the  house  of  Hapsburg, 
"  Reform  Austria,  and  set  the  prisoners  free."  It 
would  not  do  it.  Down  it  went.  He  says  to  men 
now,  "  Reform  abuses,  enlighten  the  people,  make 
peace  and  justice  to  reign."  They  don't  do  it,  and 
they  tumble  down. 

How  many  wise  men  will  go  to  the  polls  high 
with  hope,  and  be  sent  back  to  their  firesides!  God 
can  spare  them.  If  he  could  spare  Washington  be- 
fore free  government  was  tested;  Howard,  while 
tens  of  thousands  of  dungeons  remained  unvisited; 
Wilberforce,  before  the  chains  had  dropped  from 
millions  of  slaves — then  Heaven  can  spare  another 
man.  The  man  who  for  party  forsakes  righteous- 
ness goes  down,  and  the  armed  battalions  of  God 
march  over  him. 


1 84  THE  RISING  IN  1776. 


THE  RISING  IN  1776. 

By  THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ,  Poet.     B.  1822,  Pennsyl- 
vania; d.  1872,  New  York. 

OUT  of  the  North  the  wild  news  came, 
Far  flashing  on  its  wings  of  flame, 
Swift  as  the  boreal  light  which  flies 
At  midnight  through  the  startled  skies. 

And  there  was  tumult  in  the  air, 

The  fife's  shrill  note,  the  drum's  loud  beat, 
And  through  the  wide  land  everywhere 
The  answering  tread  of  hurrying  feet, 
While  the  first  oath  of  Freedom's  gun 
Came  on  the  blast  from  Lexington; 
And  Concord,  roused,  no  longer  tame, 
Forgot  her  old  baptismal  name, 
Made  bare  her  patriot  arm  of  power, 
And  swelled  the  discord  of  the  hour. 

The  pastor  came :  his  snowy  locks 

Hallowed  his  brow  of  thought  and  care ; 

And,  calmly  as  shepherds  lead  their  flocks, 
He  led  into  the  house  of  prayer. 

The  pastor  rose:  the  prayer  was  strong; 
The  psalm  was  warrior  David's  song; 
The  text,  a  few  short  words  of  might, — 
"  The  Lord  of  hosts  shall  arm  the  right." 


THE  RISING  IN  1776.  185 

He  spoke  of  wrongs  too  long  endured, 
Of  sacred  rights  to  be  secured ; 
Then  from  his  patriot  tongue  of  flame 
The  startling  words  for  Freedom  came. 
The  stirring  sentences  he  spake 
Compelled  the  heart  to  glow  or  quake, 
And,  rising  on  his  theme's  broad  wing, 
And  grasping  in  his  nervous  hand 
The  imaginary  battle-brand, 
In  face  of  death  he  dared  to  fling 
Defiance  to  a  tyrant  king. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  his  frame,  renewed 
In  eloquence  of  attitude, 
Rose,  as  it  seemed,  a  shoulder  higher; 
Then  swept  his  kindling  glance  of  fire 
From  startled  pew  to  breathless  choir; 
When  suddenly  his  mantle  wide 
His  hands  impatient  flung  aside, 
And,  lo!  he  met  their  wondering  eyes 
Complete  in  all  a  warrior's  guise. 

."  Who  dares  "—this  was  the  patriot's  cry, 
As  striding  from  the  desk  he  came — 
"  Come  out  with  me  in  Freedom's  name, 
For  her  to  live,  for  her  to  die?  " 
A  hundred  hands  flung  up  reply, 
A  hundred  voices  answered,  "  I!  " 


186  DOROTHY'S  MUSTN'TS. 


DOROTHY'S  MUSTNTS. 


By  ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX,  Poet,  Author.     B.  1845,  Wis- 
consin ;  resides  in  New  York  City. 
From  In  Sunny  Hours. 

"  I'M  sick  of  '  mustn'ts,'  "  said  Dorothy  D., 
"  Sick  of '  mustn'ts  '  as  I  can  be. 


"  From  early  morn  till  the  close  of  day 

I  hear  a  '  mustn't '  and  never  a  '  may.' 

It's  '  You  mustn't  lie  there  like  a  sleepy  head,' 

And  '  You  mustn't  sit  up  when  it's  time  for  bed  '; 

"  '  You  mustn't  cry  when  I  comb  your  curls  ' ; 
'  You  mustn't  play  with  those  noisy  girls  '; 
'  You  mustn't  be  silent  when  spoken  to  ' ; 
'  You  mustn't  chatter  as  parrots  do  ' ; 

"  '  You   mustn't  be   pert,'   and  '  You   mustn't  be 

proud ' ; 

'  You  mustn't  giggle  or  laugh  aloud  '; 
'  You  mustn't  rumple  your  nice  clean  dress '; 
'  You  mustn't  nod  in  place  of  yes.' 

"  So  all  day  long  the  '  mustn'ts  '  go 
Till  I  dream  at  night  of  an  endless  row 
Of  goblin  '  mustn'ts  '  with  great  big  eyes 
That  stare  at  me  in  shocked  surprise. 


MEMORIAL  DA  Y  ADDKESS.  1 

"  Oh,  I  hope  I  shall  live  to  see  the  day 
When  someone  will  say  to  me  '  Dear,  you  may, 
For  I'm  sick  of  '  mustn'ts,'  "  said  Dorothy  D., 
"  Sick  of '  mustn'ts,'  as  I  can  be." 


MEMORIAL   DAY  ADDRESS. 

By  WILLIAM  JENNINGS  BRYAN,  Orator,  Statesman.  B. 
1860,  Illinois  ;  resides  in  Nebraska. 

From  an  address  delivered  at  Arlington  Cemetery, 
Washington,  D.  C.,  May  30,  1894. 

THE  essence  of  patriotism  lies  in  a  willingness  to 
sacrifice  for  one's  country,  just  as  true  greatness 
finds  expression,  not  in  blessings  enjoyed,  but  in 
good  bestowed.  Read  the  words  inscribed  on  the 
monuments  reared  by  loving  hands  to  the  heroes 
of  the  past;  they  do  not  speak  of  wealth  inherited, 
or  of  honors  bought,  or  of  hours  in  leisure  spent, 
but  of  service  done.  Twenty  years,  forty  years,  a 
life,  or  life's  most  precious  blood,  he  yielded  up  for 
the  welfare  of  his  fellows — this  is  the  simple  story 
which  proves  that  it  is  now,  and  ever  has  been, 
more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive. 

The  officer  was  a  patriot  when  he  gave  his  ability 
to  his  country  and  risked  his  name  and  fame  upon 
the  fortunes  of  war;  the  private  soldier  was  a  pa- 
triot when  he  took  his  place  in  the  ranks  and 
offered  his  body  as  a  bulwark  to  protect  the  flag; 
the  wife  was  a  patriot  when  she  bade  her  husband 
farewell  and  gathered  about  her  the  little  brood 


1 88  MEMORIAL  DA  Y  ADDRESS. 

over  which  she  must  exercise  both  a  mothers  and 
a  father's  care;  and,  if  there  can  be  degrees  in 
patriotism,  the  mother  stood  first  among  the  pa- 
triots when  she  gave  to  the  nation  her  sons,  the 
divinely  appointed  support  of  her  declining  years, 
and,  as  she  brushed  the  tears  away,  thanked  God 
that  he  had  given  her  the  strength  to  rear  strong 
and  courageous  sons  for  the  battlefield. 

To  us  who  were  born  too  late  to  prove  upon  the 
battlefield  our  courage  and  our  loyalty,  it  is  gratify- 
ing to  know  that  opportunity  will  not  be  wanting 
to  show  our  love  of  country.  In  a  nation  like  ours, 
where  the  Government  is  founded  upon  the  prin- 
ciple of  equality  and  derives  its  just  powers  from 
the  consent  of  the  governed;  in  a  land  like  ours, 
where  every  citizen  is  a  sovereign  and  where  no 
one  cares  to  wear  a  crown,  every  year  presents  a 
battlefield  and  every  day  brings  forth  occasion  for 
the  display  of  patriotism. 

We  shall  fall  short  of  our  duty  if  we  content  our- 
selves with  praising  the  dead  or  complimenting  the 
living,  and  fail  to  make  preparations  for  those  re- 
sponsibilities which  present  times  and  present  con- 
ditions impose  upon  us.  Pericles,  in  speaking  of 
those  who  fell  at  Salamis,  explained  the  loyalty  of 
his  countrymen  when  he  said: 

"  It  was  for  such  a  country,  then,  that  these  men, 
nobly  resolving  not  to  have  it  taken  from  them, 
fell  fighting,  and  every  one  of  their  survivors  may 
well  be  willing  to  suffer  in  its  behalf." 

The  strength  of  a  nation  does  not  lie  in  forts, 


NATHAN  HALE.  189 

nor  in  navies,  nor  yet  in  great  standing  armies,  but 
in  happy  and  contented  citizens,  who  are  ever  ready 
to  protect  for  themselves  and  to  preserve  for  pos- 
terity the  blessings  which  they  enjoy.  It  is  for  us 
of  this  generation  to  so  perform  the  duties  of  citi- 
zenship that  a  "  government  of  the  people,  by  the 
people,  and  for  the  people  shall  not  perish  from  the 
earth." 


NATHAN   HALE. 

By  FRANCIS  MILES  FINCH,  Poet.  B.  1827,  New  York.  In 
1881  he  was  elected  an  associate  justice  of  the  Court  of  Ap- 
peals of  the  State  of  New  York. 

Nathan  Hale,  Soldier,  was  born  in  Coventry,  Conn.,  in 
1755,  and  died  in  New  York  City,  September  22,  1776. 
When  he  graduated  from  Yale  in  1773,  Dr.  Munson  of  New 
Haven  said  of  him  that  "  he  was  in  figure  and  deportment 
the  most  manly  man  I  have  ever  met."  When  the  news  of 
Lexington  reached  the  quiet  village  where  he  was  teach- 
ing, a  town  meeting  was  held  at  which  Hale  said,  "  Let  us 
march  immediately,  and  never  lay  down  our  arms  until  we 
have  obtained  our  independence." 

He  became  eventually  a  captain  in  the  "  Connecticut 
Rangers,"  and  while  in  the  British  lines  openly  making 
observations,  drawings,  and  memoranda  of  fortifications,  he 
was  arrested  and  condemned  as  a  spy.  As  he  ascended 
the  scaffold  he  said  :  "  If  I  had  ten  thousand  lives,  I  would 
lay  them  down  in  defense  of  my  injured,  bleeding  coun- 
try "  and  his  last  words  were  :  "  I  only  regret  that  I  have 
but  one  life  to  lose  for  my  country." 

To  drum-beat  and  heart-beat, 

A  soldier  marches  by; 
There  is  color  in  his  cheek, 

There  is  courage  in  his  eye, — 
Yet  to  drum-beat  and  heart-beat 

In  a  moment  he  must  die. 


19°  NA  THA N  HA  LE. 

By  starlight  and  moonlight, 
He  seeks  the  Briton's  camp; 

He  hears  the  rustling  flag 

And  the  armed  sentry's  tramp; 

And  the  starlight  and  moonlight 
His  silent  wanderings  lamp. 

With  slow  tread  and  still  tread, 

He  scans  the  tented  line, 
And  he  counts  the  battery  guns 

By  the  gaunt  and  shadowy  pine; 
And  his  slow  tread  and  still  tread 

Gives  no  warning  sign. 

The  dark  wave  and  the  plumed  wave.. 

It  meets  his  eager  glance; 
And  it  sparkles  'neath  the  stars 

Like  the  glimmer  of  a  lance, — 
A  dark  wave,  a  plumed  wave, 

On  an  emerald  expanse. 

A  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 

And  terror  in  the  sound ! 
For  the  sentry,  falcon-eyed, 

In  the  camp  a  spy  has  found; 
With  a  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 

The  patriot  is  bound. 

With  calm  brow,  steady  brow, 

He  listens  to  his  doom; 
In  his  look  there  is  no  fear, 

Nor  a  shadow-trace  of  gloom, 


NATHAN  HALE.  J91 

But  with  calm  brow  and  steady  brow 
He  robes  him  for  the  tomb. 

In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  kneels  upon  the  sod; 
And  the  brutal  guards  withhold 

E'en  the  solemn  Word  of  God! 
In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  walks  where  Christ  had  trod. 

'Neath  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

He  dies  upon  the  tree ; 
And  he  mourns  that  he  can  lose 

But  one  life  for  liberty; 
And  in  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

His  spirit  wings  are  free. 

From  the  Fame-leaf  and  the  Angel-leaf, 

From  monument  and  urn, 
The  sad  of  earth,  the  glad  of  Heaven, 

His  tragic  fate  shall  learn, 
And  on  Fame-leaf  and  on  Angel-leaf 

The  name  of  HALE  shall  burn. 


THE    WISEST  FOOL. 


THE  WISEST  FOOL. 

By  EVA  LOVETT,  Poet,  Editor  of  the  Young  Folk's  Page 
of  the  Brooklyn  Sunday  Eagle;  resides  in  Brooklyn, 
N.  Y. 

Six  fools,  the  story  runs, 

King  Simon,  wisest  monarch  he,  and  good, 
Sent  out  to  do  the  wisest  thing  they  could 

Between  two  suns. 


They  started  forth  in  haste. 
Said  one:  "  The  livelong  day 
All  I  possess  on  earth  I'll  give  away. 
Purest  of  joys  I'll  taste, 

And  do  the  wisest  thing  I  know, 
What  wiser  could  I  do  below?  " 

Another  cried:  "  Indeed, 

You  prove  yourself  the  fool  you  claim  to  be. 
I'll  search  for  treasure,  buy  and  sell,  and  see 
What  I  can  save  against  my  sorest  need; 

The  King's  reward  to  whoso  does  the  best — 
I'm  wiser  than  the  rest." 

The  third  said:  "  Most  of  men 

Are  fools,  and  I  am  surely  not  the  least, 
I'll  travel  west  and  east, 

And  give  advice  both  with  my  tongue  and  pen, 
Two  fools  are  ever  better  far  than  one, 
What  wiser  could  I  do  before  another  sun?" 


THE    WISEST  FOOL.  193 

Said  one:  "  The  world  is  rife  with  woe, 

Suffering,  and  sorrow;  I  will  go 

Out  into  all  the  highways,  to  and  fro, 

And  heal  the  broken  hearts,  and  soothe  the  strife, 

Make  easier  the  strange  disease  called  life. 

What  better  lot  on  me  could  fall, 

Than  to  be  slave  to  all?  " 

The  next:  "  This  starting  out  to  see 

How  wise  they  are,  it  seems  to  me, 

Proves  them  but  fools  the  more. 

I'll  to  my  bed  and  snore, 

I'll  take  the  day  to  rest, 

And  on  the  morrow  with  a  fresher  zest, 

When  I  amuse  the  master,  he  will  say, 

"  Oh,  Fool,  you  were  the  wisest  yesterday." 

The  last  fool  started,  halted,  turned  him  round, 
And  bowing  to  the  ground, 
Took  his  old  place  again  beside  the  King, 
Saying:  "Oh,  Master!  what  the  wisest  thing 

May  be — I  cannot  tell, 

And  so  I'll  do  the  thing  that's  next  my  hand, 
And  that  I'm  here  to  do, — You  understand 
I  am  a  fool.     My  Master, 
Is  it  well?" 


194  THE  NATIONAL  HYMN. 

THE   NATIONAL   HYMN. 

By  JANET  E.  H.  RICHARDS. 

An  address  delivered  at  Washington,  D.  C.,  before  the 
Daughters  of  the  American  Revolution,  January,  1897. 

THE  idea  of  writing  a  National  hymn  to  order  in 
times  of  peace,  without  the  inspiration  of  a  nation's 
peril  or  the  fear  of  losing  a  people's  liberty,  seems 
as  absurd  as  to  suppose  that  the  poet  Bryant  might 
have  written  "  Thanatopsis  "  to  order  as  an  obitu- 
ary, or  that  Gray  could  have  written  his  immortal 
Elegy  as  a  funeral  ode  in  obedience  to  a  royal 
mandate. 

Fancy  Rouget  de  Lisle,  for  example,  composing 
the  immortal  "  Marseillaise,"  perhaps  the  most  in- 
spiring and  famous  of  National  hymns,  without  the 
inspiration  of  the  French  Revolution,  the  danger 
of  losing  the  hard-won  advantages  already  wrested 
by  an  oppressed  people  from  a  three  years'  struggle 
for  liberty. 

What  less  could  have  brought  into  being,  in  a 
single  night,  those  ringing  words  set  to  that  won- 
derful and  martial  air,  the  twin  product  of  a  mighty 
inspiration,  born  of  a  passionate  desire  for  a  na- 
tion's freedom! 

Without  the  inspiring  occasion,  it  is  impossible 
that  a  national  anthem,  destined  to  survive,  should 
be  born.  From  the  birth-throes  only  of  a  nation's 
peril,  expressed  perhaps  in  the  guise  of  a  devoted 
and  enthusiastic  patriotism,  the  nation's  anthems 
have  come  forth.  To  which  of  our  national  hymns 


THE   LADY  OF   THE   CASTLE.  195 

has  such  an  occasion  given  birth?  To  one,  and 
one  only,  which  is  itself  the  strongest  argument  for 
exalting  it  above  the  rest  and  crystallizing  public 
sentiment  in  favor  of  choosing  it  as  the  National 
American  hymn — ''The  Star-Spangled  Banner!" 

You  all  know  its  history — how  it  was  written  by 
Francis  Scott  Key  during  the  War  of  1812,  or, 
more  accurately  speaking,  at  the  battle  of  North 
Point,  near  Baltimore,  on  September  12,  1814. 

From  the  peril  of  a  desperate  occasion  (the  dan- 
ger of  renewed  British  domination)  his  inspiration 
sprang  into  being,  and,  seizing  barrel-head  for 
desk,  on  the  blank  sheet  of  a  letter,  with  a  piece  of 
lead  pencil,  Francis  Scott  Key  wrote  those  immor- 
tal words,  at  once  an  apostrophe  to  the  flag  and  a 
summary  of  that  battle,  the  peril  and  uncertainty  of 
the  night,  the  blessed  triumph  of  the  morning! 

In  times  of  peace,  dear  flag,  we  hail  thee!  In 
time  of  danger,  inspired  by  this  anthem,  we  will 
gladly  rally  to  thy  defense  and  shed  our  life's  blood, 
if  necessary,  in  order  that  we  may  proudly  pro- 
claim, after  the  heat  and  hardship  of  the  struggle, 
"Our  flag  is  still  there!" 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   CASTLE. 


ANONYMOUS. 


"  OH  !  happy  is  he  that  giveth 

Of  his  gifts  unto  the  poor, 
For  the  smile  of  the  blessed  Christ  is  his, 

And  his  reward  is  sure." 


196  THE  LADY  OF   THE   CASTLE. 

'Twas  at  the  bleak  time  of  Winter 

And  a  draught  lay  on  the  land, 
And  bread  was  scarce,  and  cries  of  want 

Were  heard  on  every  hand, 

When  a  beggar  roamed  through  the  village, 

Meanly  but  cleanly  clad; 
Her  back  was  bent  'neath  the  burden  of  age 

And  her  face  was  pale  and  sad. 

"  Give  me  of  your  bread,  good  people, 
Give  me  of  your  bread,"  cried  she; 

"  That  I'm  hungry  and  cold  and  ragged  and  old 
You  all  must  plainly  see." 

With  many  a  look  of  anger 

They  drove  her  from  the  door; 
Or  if  food  they  gave  her,  'twas  a  moldy  crust 

Or  a  bone  and  nothing  more. 

At  last  at  a  little  cottage, 

And  humbler  than  any  there, 
Where  a  poor  old  man,  and  his  feeble  wife, 

Dwelt  long  with  want  and  care, 

She  paused,  that  wretched  wanderer, 

And  asked  a  while  to  rest 
On  the  steps,  but  the  old  man  with  kindly  smile 

Urged  in  his  ragged  guest 


THE  LADY  OF   THE   CASTLE. 

And  gave  her  a  seat  at  the  fireside, 
While  his  good  wife  in  a  trice 

From  a  fresh  baked  loaf  of  barley  bread 
Cut  off  an  ample  slice. 

And  this  with  a  cup  of  water 
They  placed  before  their  guest, 

"  'Twas  all  they  had,"  they  smiling  said, 
But  the  food  upon  her  prest. 

"  May  the  good  Lord  ne'er  forgive  us, 

Nor  e'er  bestow  us  more, 
If  ever  the  hungry  we  turn  away 

Unfed  from  our  cottage  door. 

"  The  little  we  have  to  offer  is  God's, 
Not  ours ;  -do  eat,  we  pray." 

And  the  beggar  ate  of  the  barley  bread 
And  thankfully  went  her  way. 

The  lady  up  at  the  castle, 
The  castle  stately  and  grand, 

Invited  the  villagers  to  a  feast 
To  be  given  by  her  hand. 

And  smiling  they  went  to  the  castle, 
And  smiling  they  entered  the  hall, 

Where  a  chair  was  set  for  everyone, 
And  a  place  was  laid  for  all. 


198  THE   LADY  OF    THE   CASTLE. 

Said  the  lady,  smiling  sweetly, 
"  Come,  friends,  sit  up  and  eat," 

And  they  gathered  round  that  ample  board 
With  glad  and  willing  feet. 

Then  their  eyes  oped  wide  with  wonder, 
For  they  saw — oh — sore  dismayed, 

A  moldy  cake  or  a  moldy  crust 
Beside  each  platter  laid ! 

With  scraps  of  cold  potatoes 

Which  the  swine  would  scarcely  eat, 

And  tainted  fish  and  rinds  cf  cheese 
And  broken  bits  of  meat. 

While  up  in  a  place  of  honor 

A  table  was  set  for  two; 
Groaning  beneath  its  weight  of  food, 

And  dainties  both  sweet  and  new. 


Then  up  spake  this  noble  lady, 

And  sternly  this  she  said : 
"  I  was  the  beggar  that  roamed  your  streets 

Yester'e'en,  and  asked  for  bread. 

"  I  did  it  to  test  you  people, 

So  anxious  was  I  to  know 
How  kind  ye  were  to  the  hungry  and  poor 

Amid  this  season  of  woe. 


THE   LADY   OF    THE   CASTLE.  199 

"  And  this  was  what  you  gave  me, 
As  you  spurned  me  from  your  door, 

These  vik  cold  scraps,  and  these  moldy  crusts — 
But  these,  and  nothing  more! 


"  Not  one  in  this  whole  large  village 

Save  him  with  yon  hoary  head, 
And  his  dear  old  wife,  that  asked  me  in 

And  gave  me  of  their  bread. 

"  For  them  is  yon  table  waiting 

With  richest  viands  stored. 
Go!  sit  ye  down,  dear  servants  of  Christ, 

And  feast  ye  at  my  board. 

"  And  want  shall  be  thine  no  longer, 

For  a  home  I've  given  to  thee, 
Where  every  comfort  of  life  shall  be  thine 

Till  life  shall  cease  to  be. 

"  And  ye  go  home,  ye  people, 

Each  with  your  moldy  crust, 
And  bow  your  heads  with  very  shame; 

Ay,  even  to  the  dust. 

"  And  back  to  my  noble  castle, 

Oh!  never  come  again 
Till  ye  learn  with  what  measure  ye  mete,  it  shall 

Be  meted  to  you  again. 


200       THE  LONE  STAR  OF  CUBA. 

"  Oh !  happy  is  he  that  giveth 

Of  his  gifts  unto  the  poor; 
For  the  smile  of  the  blessed  Christ  is  his, 

And  his  reward  is  sure." 


THE  LONE  STAR  OF  CUBA. 

By  DAVID  GRAHAM  ADEE,  Poet ;  resides  at  Washington, 
D.  C. 
Reprinted  from  The  Evening  Star  of  Washington. 

STRIKE  for  your  altars 

Lit  by  the  Lone  Star, 
Triumph  ne'er  falters 

From  heroes  afar! 
Cuba,  your  valor 

Illumines  your  face, 
Flushes  its  pallor, 

Upraising  your  race! 

Tyrants  shall  never 

Destroy  your  fair  fame; 
Freedom  forever 

Encircles  your  name! 
Cuba,  bright  Queen 

Of  the  Antilles  isles, 
Brilliant  your  sheen 

As  resplendent  your  smiles. 

Cubans,  arise, 

For  the  battle  fierce  roars; 
Gain  the  grand  prize 

Kept  by  Spain  from  your  shores ! 


THE  LONE   STAR   OF  CUBA.  2OI 

Win  as  the  seaman 

With  ocean  in  fight 
All  that  the  freeman 

Attains  by  the  right; 

Cubans,  the  God 

Who  gives  strength  to  the  brave 
Bares  the  sharp  sword 

Your  dear  country  to  save; 
Fills  you  again  . 

With  the  patriot  power 
Despots  of  Spain 

To  withstand  as  a  tower! 

Cubans,  awake, 

From  the  slumber  of  night, 
Tyranny  shake 

From  your  island  of  light! 
Wheel  into  line 

With  the  great  and  the  free, 
Let  your  star  shine 

O'er  the  land  and  the  sea! 

Strive  ye  in  battle 

As  heroes  have  striven, 
Men  are  not  cattle 

Like  brutes  to  be  driven! 
Never  lay  by 

Your  good  weapons  of  war 
Till  Liberty's  sky 

Beams  with  Cuba's  Lone  Star! 


202  PEACE. 

PEACE. 

By  CHARLES  SUMNER.  Statesman,  Orator.  B.  1811,  Mas- 
sachusetts ;  d.  1874,  Washington,  D.  C. 

Selected  from  the  oration,  "The  True  Grandeur  of  Na- 
tions," delivered  in  Tremont  Temple,  Boston,  July  4,  1845. 

AND  peace  has  its  own  peculiar  victories,  in  com- 
parison with  which  Marathon  and  Bannockburn 
and  Bunker  Hill — fields  held  sacred  in  the  history 
of  human  freedom — shall  lose  their  luster.  Our 
own  Washington  rises  to  a  truly  heavenly  stature, 
not  when  we  follow  him  over  the  ice  of  the  Dela- 
ware to  the  capture  of  Trenton,  not  when  we  be- 
hold him  victorious  over  Cornwallis  at  Yorktown, 
but  when  we  regard  him,  in  noble  deference  to  jus- 
tice, refusing  the  kingly  crown  which  a  faithless 
soldiery  proffered,  and  at  a  later  day  upholding  the 
peaceful  neutrality  of  the  country,  while  he  received 
unmoved  the  clamor  of  the  people  wickedly  crying 
for  war.  .  . 

Freedom  is  not  an  end  in  itself,  but  a  means  only; 
a  means  of  securing  justice  and  happiness — the 
real  end  and  aim  of  states,  as  of  every  human  heart. 
If  these  truths  are  impressed  on  your  minds  you 
will  be  ready  to  join  in  efforts  for  the  abolition  of 
war,  and  of  all  preparations  for  war,  as  indispen- 
sable to  the  true  grandeur  of  our  country. 

To  this  great  work  let  me  summon  you.  That 
future  which  filled  the  lofty  visions  of  the  sages  and 
bards  of  Greece  and  Rome,  which  was  foretold  by 
the  prophets  and  heralded  by  the  evangelists, — 


PEACE.  203 

when  man  in  Happy  Isles,  or  in  a  new  Paradise, 
shall  confess  the  loveliness  of  peace, — may  be  se- 
cured by  your  care,  if  not  for  yourselves,  at  least  for 
your  children.  Believe  that  you  can  do  it,  and 
you  can  do  it.  The  true  Goldeji  Age  is  before  you, 
not  behind  you.  .  . 

Let  it  not  be  said  that  the  age  does  not  de- 
mand this  work.  The  mighty  conquerors  of  the 
Past  from  their  fiery  sepulchers  demand  .it;  the 
blood  of  millions,  unjustly  shed  in  war,  crying  from 
the  ground,  demands  it;  the  voices  of  all  good  men 
demand  it;  the  conscience  even  of  the  soldier  whis- 
pers "  Peace."  There  are  considerations  springing 
from  our  situation  and  condition  which  fervently 
invite  us  to  take  the  lead  in  this  great  work.  To 
this  should  bend  the  patriotic  ardor  of  the  land, 
the  ambition  of  the  statesman,  the  efforts  of  the 
scholar,  the  pervasive  influence  of  the  press,  the 
mild  persuasion  of  the  sanctuary,  the  early  teach- 
ings of  the  school.  Here,  in  ampler  ether  and 
diviner  air,  are  untried  fields  for  exalted  triumphs 
more  truly  worthy  the  American  name  than  any 
snatched  from  rivers  of  blood.  War  is  known  as 
the  last  reason  of  kings.  Let  it  be  no  reason  of 
our  republic.  Let  us  renounce  and  throw  off  for- 
ever the  yoke  of  a  tyranny  more  oppressive  than 
any  in  the  annals  of  the  world.  As  those  standing 
on  the  mountain-tops  first  discern  the  coming 
beams  of  morning,  let  us,  from  the  vantage  ground 
of  liberal  institutions,  first  recognize  the  ascending 
sun  of  a  new  era!  Lift  high  the  gates,  and  let  the 


204  PEACE. 

King  of  Glory  in:  the  King  of  true  Glory — of 
Peace.  I  catch  the  last  words  of  music  from  the 
lips  of  innocence  and  beauty: 

"  And  let  the  whole  earth  be  filled  with  his  glory." 

It  is  a  beautiful  picture  in  Grecian  story,  that 
there  was  at  least  one  spot — the  small  island  of 
Delos — dedicated  to  the  gods,  and  kept  at  all  times 
sacred  from  war,  where  the  citizens  of  hostile  coun- 
tries met  and  united  in  a  common  worship.  So  let 
us  dedicate  our  broad  country!  The  Temple  of 
Honor  shall  be  surrounded  by  the  Temple  of  Con- 
cord, so  that  the  former  can  be  entered  only 
through  the  portals  of  the  latter;  the  horn  of  Abun- 
dance shall  overflow  at  its  gates;  the  angel  of  Re- 
ligion shall  be  the  guide  over  its  steps  of  flashing 
adamant;  while  within  Justice,  returned  to  the 
earth  from  her  long  exile  in  the  skies,  shall  rear  her 
serene  and  majestic  front.  And  the  future  chiefs 
of  the  Republic,  destined  to  uphold  the  glories  of  a 
new  era,  unspotted  by  human  blood,  shall  be  the 
first  in  PEACE,  and  the  first  in  the  hearts  of  their 
countrvmen. 


JIM.  205 


JIM. 

By  NORA  PERRY,  Poet.     B.  1841,  Massachusetts. 
From  "  Lyrics  and  Legends, "copyright  by  Little,  Brown 
&Co. 

OUT  in  a  fog-bank  we  went  down, — 

Four-and-twenty  men  full  told, 
Fishermen  all,  from  Provincetown, 

None  of  'em  more  than  thirty  year  old. 


We'd  cleared  the  banks  and  were  homeward  bound, 
With  such  a  load  as  you  never  saw, — 

Cod  and  mackerel  fine  and  sound, 
"Twelve  hundredweight  without  a  flaw. 

The  wind  was  west  and  the  sky  was  clear 
When  we  set  our  sails  that  night  for  home; 

Nobody  had  a  thought  of  fear 
An  hour  before  the  end  had  come. 


Jim  was  whistlin' — a  way  he  had — 
A  theater  tune  he'd  heard  somewhere; 

I  can  hear  it  now,  and  can  see  the  lad, 

With  his  handsome  shoulders  broad  and  square. 

He  stood  at  the  helm,  and  he  knew  his  place, 

Nobody  knew  it  better  than  he. 
One  minute  the  moon  lit  up  his  face, 

The  next,  I  swear  I  couldn't  see 


206  JIM. 

Half  a  foot  before  me  there! 

Just  as  sudden  as  that  it  fell, 
That  white  fog-bank, — a  devil's  snare, 

It  seemed  to  me,  from  the  pit  of  hell. 

Four-and-twenty  men  full  told, 

And  never  one  of  'em  saved  but  me. 

None  of  'em  more  than  thirty  year  old, 
As  likely  lads  as  ever  you  see. 


Fisherman's  luck,  perhaps  you  say. 

The  parson  said  pretty  nigh  the  same, 
When  he  tried  to  comfort  the  folks  that  day, 

Though  he  fixed  it  up  by  another  name. 

Well,  it's  five-and-thirty  years  to-night 
Since  we  parted  company,  Jim  and  me, — 

Since  I  saw  him  in  that  March  moonlight, 
His  hand  to  the  helm,  his  face  to  the  sea. 

Five-and-thirty  years,  and  Jim, — 

He's  a  young  man  still,  I  s'pose,  while  I, 

My  hair  is  white,  and  my  eyes  are  dim. 
But,  mate,  I've  a  notion,  when  I  die, 

He'll  be  at  the  helm  and  steer  me  through 
The  shoaling  tide  to  my  journey's  end; 

For  Jim  and  me — well,  I  never  knew 
Such  a  fellow  as  Jim  to  stick  to  a  friend. 


ADDKESS  AT  GETTYSBURG.  207 

And  I've  had  a  thought  I've  never  told 

In  all  these  years  before — that  Jim 
Would  never  have  lost  his  grip  and  hold, 

As  somehow  I  lost  my  grip  on  him. 

We  went  down  into  the  fog  together; 

He  was  hurt  from  the  first,  but  I  had  him  fast 
In  a  clutch  like  death,  I  thought;  but  whether 

My  strength  or  courage  failed  at  the  last 

I  never  could  tell,  but  only  know 

That  all  at  once  I  found  my  hand 
Loose  and  empty — God,  what  a  blow! 

Then  I  drifted  alone  to  an  empty  land. 

But  I  haven't  much  time  here  now  to  spend; 

My  hearing's  dull  and  my  eyes  are  dim. 
What's  that  you  ask,  "  afraid  of  the  end?  " 

Afraid !  why,  the  end  is — Jim ! 


ADDRESS  AT   GETTYSBURG. 

By  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN,  Statesman,  President  of  the 
United  States.  B.  1809,  Kentucky;  lived  in  Illinois  and 
Washington,  D.  C.  ;  d.  Washington,  D.  C.,  1865. 

The  battle  of  Gettysburg  was  fought  July  1-3,  1863,  be- 
tween the  Union  forces  under  General  Meade  and  the 
Confederate  troops  under  General  Lee.  The  Confederates 
were  defeated. 

At  the  dedication  of  the  Cemetery,  in  which  those  slain 
in  this  battle  were  buried,  November  19,  1863,  President 
Lincoln  delivered  this  brief  address. 

FOURSCORE-AND-SEVEN   years   ago   our   fathers 
brought  forth  on  this  continent  a  new  nation,  con- 


208  ADDRESS  AT  GETTYSBURG. 

ceived  in  liberty,  and  dedicated  to  the  proposition 
that  all  men  are  created  equal.  Now  we  are  en- 
gaged in  a  great  civil  war,  testing  whether  that 
nation,  or  any  nation  so  conceived  and  so  dedi- 
cated, can  long  endure. 

We  are  met  on  a  great  battlefield  of  that  war. 
We  have  come  to  dedicate  a  portion  of  that  field  as 
a  final  resting-place  for  those  who  here  gave  their 
lives  that  that  nation  might  live.  It  is  altogether 
fitting  and  proper  that  we  should  do  this. 

But  in  a  larger  sense  we  cannot  dedicate,  we  can- 
not consecrate,  we  cannot  hallow  this  ground. 
The  brave  men,  living  and  dead,  who  struggled 
here,  have  consecrated  it  far  above  our  poor  power 
to  add  or  detract. 

The  world  will  little  note,  nor  long  remember, 
what  we  say  here,  but  it  can  never  forget  what  they 
did  here. 

It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather  to  be  dedicated  here 
to  the  unfinished  work  which  they  who  fought  here 
have  thus  far  so  nobly  advanced. 

It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedicated  to  the 
great  task  remaining  before  us,  that  from  these 
honored  dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to  that 
cause  for  which  they  gave  the  last  full  measure  of 
devotion;  that  we  here  highly  resolve  that  these 
dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain;  that  this  nation, 
under  God,  shall  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom,  and 
that  government  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for 
the  people,  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth. 


THE   CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS.  209 

THE    CHAMBERED    NAUTILUS. 

By  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES,  Poet,  Author,  Professor. 
B.  1809.  Massachusetts  ;  d.  1894,  Beverly,  Mass. 

From  "  Holmes'  Poetical  Works,"  published  by  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co. 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  the  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  stream- 
ing hair. 

Its  web  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old 
no  more. 


210  OPPORTUNITY    TO   LABOR. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  borne 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice 
that  sings: — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my -soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll! 

Leave  thy  low- vaulted  past! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 

Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting 
sea! 


OPPORTUNITY   TO    LABOR. 

By  THOMAS  BRACKETT  REED,  Statesman.  B.  1839,  Maine  ; 
resides  in  Washington,  D.  C. 

Mr.  Reed  has  been  a  Member  of  Congress  continuously 
since  1876,  and  is  now  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Representa- 
tives. 

From  a  speech  delivered  at  Old  Orchard  Beach,  Me., 
August  25,  1896. 

WHAT  seemed  the  great  primeval  curse  that 
in  the  sweat  of  his  face  should  man  eat  bread  has 
been  found,  in  the  wider  view  of  the  great  cycles  of 
the  Almighty,  to  be  the  foundation  of  all  sound 
hope,  all  sure  progress,  and  all  permanent  power. 


OPPORTUNITY    TO  LABOR.  211 

Man  no  longer  shuns  labor  as  his  deadliest  foe,  but 
welcomes  it  as  his  dearest  friend.  Nations  no 
longer  dream  of  riches  as  the  spoils  of  war,  but  as 
the  fruits  of  human  energy  directed  by  wise  laws 
and  encouraged  by  peace  and  good  will.  Battle- 
ments and  forts  and  castles,  armies  and  navies,  are 
day  by  day  less  and  less  the  enginery  of  slaughter, 
and  more  and  more  the  guarantee  of  peace  with 
honor.  What  the  world  longs  for  now  is  not  the 
pageantry  and  devastation  of  war  for  the  aggran- 
dizement of  the  few,  but  the  full  utilization  of  all 
human  energy  for  the  benefit  of  all  mankind. 

Give,  us  but  the  opportunity  to  labor,  and  the 
whole  world  of  human  life  will  burst  into  tree  and 
flower. 

To  the  seventy-five  millions  of  people  who 
make  up  this  great  Republic,  the  opportunity  to 
labor  means  more  than  to  all  the  world  besides.  It 
means  the  development  of  resources  great  beyond 
the  comprehension  of  any  mortal  and  the  diffusion 
among  all  of  the  riches  to  which  the  glories  of 
"  The  Arabian  Nights  "  are  but  the  glitter  of  the 
pawnshop,  and  to  which  the  sheen  of  all  the  jewels 
of  this  earth  are  but  the  gleam  of  the  glowworm  in 
the  pallor  of  the  dawn. 

To  develop  our  great  resources,  it  is  the  one 
prime  necessity  that  all  our  people  should  be  at 
work,  that  all  the  brain  and  muscle  should  be  in 
harmonious  action,  united  in  their  endeavors  to 
utilize  the  great  forces  of  nature  and  to  make 
wealth  out  of  senseless  matter  and  out  of  all  the  life 


212       WHEN  THE  BLOOM  IS  ON  THE  HEATHER. 

which  begins  with  the  cradle  and  ends  with  the 
grave,  and  out  of  all  the  powers  which  ebb  and 
flow  in  the  tides  of  the  ocean,  in  the  rush  of  the 
rivers,  and  out  of  the  great  energies  which  are 
locked  up  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 


WHEN  THE   BLOOM   IS   ON   THE 
HEATHER. 

By  PETER  GRANT,  Author  ;  resides  at  Chicago. 
Reprinted  from  The  Scottish  American  of  February  17, 
1897. 

WHEN  the  sunbeams  glint  sae  bonnie 

On  the  burnie's  dancin'  foam, 
An'  the  wee  birds'  blythesome  chorus 

Tells  that  simmer  days  hae  come, 
Then  I'm  houpin'  tae  forgaither 

Wi'  the  freens  o'  bygane  days — 
When  the  bloom  is  on  the  heather 

An'  the  gowan  on  the  braes. 

Oh!  I'll  hear  the  skylark  singin' 

As  he  wakes  the  caller  morn; 
An'  my  een  sae  wistfu'  gazin' 

On  the  glen  where  I  was  born; 
An'  the  bluebells  saftly  noddin' 

Tae  the  simmer  breeze  that  blows — 
When  the  bloom  is  on  the  heather 

An'  the  blossom  on  the  rose. 


THE    THRUSH'S  SONG. 

Oh!  the  neighbors'  bairns  will  gather 

Whaur  I  sit  aneath  the  trees, 
An'  I'll  tell  them  wondrous  stories 

O'  the  land  ayont  the  seas; 
An'  their  artless  wiles  shall  banish 

A'  the  sorrows  I  hae  seen — 
When  the  bloom  is  on  the  heather 

An'  the  dewdrop  on  the  green. 

'Mang  the  scenes  o'  hame  an'  childhood 

Mony  a  year  shall  backward  roll, 
Wi'  the  rush  o'  tender  mem'ries 

Thrangin'  ower  my  waukened  soul; 
At  the  hint  o'  hairst  regainin' 

A'  the  freshness  o'  the  spring — 
When  the  bloom  is  on  the  heather 

An'  the  bird  upon  the  wing. 


THE   THRUSH'S   SONG. 
By  W.  MACGILLIVRAY. 

DEAR,  dear,  dear, 

In  the  rocky  glen, 

Far  away,  far  away,  far  away, 

The  haunts  of  men ; 

There  shall  we  dwell  in  love 

With  the  lark  and  the  dove, 

Cuckoo  and  corn-rail, 

Feast  on  the  bearded  snail, 

Worm  and  gilded  fly ; 


214  THE  LOVE  OF  HOME. 

Drink  of  the  crystal  rill 
Winding  adown  the  hill 
Never  to  dry, 
With  glee,  with  glee,  with  glee, 

Cheer  up,  cheer  up,  cheer  up  here; 
Nothing  to  harm  us,  then  sing  merrily, 

Sing  to  the  loved  one,  whose  nest  is  near. 

Qui,  qui,  queen,  quip, 
Tiurru,  tiurru,  chipiwi, 
Too-tee,  too-tee,  chin-choo, 
Chirri,  chirri,  chooe 
Quin,  qui,  qui! 


THE   LOVE   OF   HOME. 

By  HENRY  WOODFEN  GRADY,  Orator,  Journalist.  B.  1851, 
Georgia ;  d.  1889,  Georgia. 

From  "  Life  and  Letters  of  H.  W.  Grady,"  copyright  by 
H.  C.  Hudgins  &  Co.,  Richmond,  Va. 

THE  man  who  kindles  the  fire  on  the  hearth- 
stone of  an  honest  and  righteous  home  burns  the 
best  incense  to  liberty.  He  does  not  love  mankind 
less  who  loves  his  neighbor  most.  George  Eliot 
has  said: 

"  A  human  life  should  be  well  rooted  in  some 
spot  of  a  native  land  where  it  may  get  the  love  of 
tender  kinship  for  the  face  of  the  earth,  for  the 
sounds  and  accents  that  haunt  it,  a  spot  where  the 
definiteness  of  early  memories  may  be  inwrought 
with  affection,  and  spread,  not  by  sentimental  effort 
and  reflection,  but  as  a  sweet  habit  of  the  blest." 


THE  LOVE   OF  HOME.  215 

The  germ  of  the  best  patriotism  is  in  the  love  that 
a  man  has  for  the  home  he  inhabits,  for  the  soil  he 
tills,  for  the  trees  that  give  him  shade,  and  the  hills 
that  stand  in  his  pathway.  I  teach  my  child  to  love 
Georgia;  to  love  the  soil  that  he  stands  on;  the 
body  of  my  old  mother;  the  mountains  that  are  her 
springing  breasts,  the  broad  acres  that  hold  her 
substance,  the  dimpling  valleys  in  which  her  beauty 
rests,  the  forests  that  sing  her  songs  of  lullaby  and 
of  praise,  and  the  brooks  that  run  with  her  rippling 
laughter.  The  love  of  home,  deep-rooted  and 
abiding,  that  blurs  the  eyes  of  the  dying  soldier 
with  the  vision  of  an  old  homestead  amid  green 
fields  and  clustering  trees;  that  follows  the  busy 
man  through  the  clamoring  world,  persistent 
though  put  aside,  and  at  last  draws  his  tired  feet 
from  the  highway  and  leads  him  through  shady 
lanes  and  well-remembered  paths  until,  amid  the 
scenes  of  his  boyhood,  he  gathers  up  the  broken 
threads  of  his  life  and  owns  the  soil  his  conqueror — 
this — this  lodged  in  the  heart  of  the  citizen — is  the 
saving  principle  of  our  government.  We  note  the 
barracks  of  our  standing  army  with  its  rolling  drum 
and  its  fluttering  flag  as  points  of  strength  and  pro- 
tection. But  the  citizen  standing  in  the  doorway 
of  his  home,  contented  on  his  threshold,  his  family 
gathered  about  his  hearthstone,  while  the  evening 
of  a  well-spent  day  closes  in  scenes  and  sounds  that 
are  dearest — he  shall  save  the  republic  when  the 
drum  tap  is  futile  and  the  barracks  are  exhausted. 


2l6  THE    THIRTY-NINE  LOVERS. 

THE  THIRTY-NINE  LOVERS. 

(From  the  London  Graphic.) 

A  VESSEL  was  voyaging  over  the  sea, 

And  two  score  of  passengers  on  board  had  she; 

Thirty-and-nine  of  the  masculine  sort 

And  a  charming  young  lady  the  captain  brought. 

The    thirty-and-nine    were    all    shot    through    by 

Cupid, 
But  the  charming  young  lady  thought  them  all 

rather  stupid. 

She  saw  them  alone,  and  she  saw  them  together, 

How  they  looked  in  a  calm,  and  after  bad  weather. 

There  were  tall  ones,  and  short  ones, 

Fat,  lean,  rich,  and  fady, 

But  all  were  alike  deep  in  love  with  the  lady. 

She  could  not  love  them  all,  so  what  was  to  be 

done? 
She  consulted  the  captain,  who  suggested  some 

fun. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  he,  "  if  the  day  should  be  calm, 
Just  jump  in  the  sea,  it  shall  do  you  no  harm, 
And  the  first  one  that  follows,  to  rescue  your  life, 
Will  have  the  first  claim  to  make  you  his  wife." 

The  next  day  was  calm,  and  over  she  fell, 
And  thirty-eight  passengers  followed  as  well. 
One  stayed  where  he  was,  for  as  he  could  not  swim 
He    knew   he'd   be    drowned,    which   was    "  gone 
goose  "  for  him. 


CHRISTMAS  CAMP  ON  THE  SAN  GABR'EL.       217 

The  lady  was  rescued,  and  the  passengers  too, 
And  they  stood  in  a  row  as  for  a  review, 
Uninviting  before,  they  now  looked  like  drowned 

rats 
From  the  soles  of  their  feet  to  the  crowns  of  their 

hats. 

She  consulted  the  captain,  whose  look  was  a  sly  one: 
"  If  I  were  you,  miss,  I'd  favor  the  dry  one," 
Which  she  did. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAMP  ON  THE  SAN 
GABR'EL. 

By  AMELIA  EDITH  BARR,  Author,  Poet.     B.   1831,  Eng- 
land ;  lives  in  New  York. 

LAMAR  and  his  Rangers  camped  at  dawn  on  the 

banks  of  the  San  Gabr'el, 
Under  the  mossy  live-oaks,  in  the  heart  of  a  lonely 

dell; 
With  the  cloudless  Texas  sky  above,  and  the  mes- 

quite  grass  below, 
And  all  the  prairie  lying  still,  in  a  misty,  silvery 

glow. 

The  sound  of  the  horses  cropping  grass,  the  fall  of 
a  nut,  full  ripe, 

The  stir  of  a  weary  soldier,  or  the  tap  of  a  smoked- 
out  pipe, 


siS    CHRISTMAS  CAMP  Otf  THE  SAN  GAB&EL. 

Fell  only  as  sounds  in  a  dream  may  fall  upon  a 

drowsy  ear, 
Till  the   captain   said,   "  Tis   Christmas   Day !  so, 

boys,  we'll  spend  it  here; 

"  For  the  sake  of  our  homes  and  our  childhood, 
we'll  give  the  day  its  dues." 

Then  some  leaped  up  to  prepare  the  feast,  and  some 
sat  still  to  muse, 

And  some  pulled  scarlet  yupon-berries  and  wax- 
white  mistletoe, 

To  garland  the  stand-up  rifles, — for  Christmas  has 
no  foe. 

And  every  heart  had  a  pleasant  thought,  or  a  ten- 
der memory, 

Of  unforgotten  Christmas-tides  that  nevermore 
might  be; 

They  felt  the  thrill  of  a  mother's  kiss,  they  heard 
the  happy  psalm, 

And  the  men  grew  still,  and  all  the  camp  was  full 
of  a  gracious  calm. 

"  Halt!  "  cried  the  sentinel;  and  lo!  from  out  of  the 

brushwood  near 
There  came,  with  weary,  fainting  step,  a  man  in 

mortal  fear, — 
A  brutal  man,  with  a  tiger's  heart,  and  yet  he  made 

his  plea: 
"  I  am  dying  of  hunger  and  thirst,  so  do  what  you 

will  with  me." 


CHRISTMAS  CAMP  ON  THE  SAN  GABKEL.      2t$ 

They  knew  him  well:  who  did  not  know  the  cruel 

San  Sabatan, — 
The  robber  of  the  Rio  Grande,  who  spared  not  any 

man? 
In   low,   fierce   tones   they   spoke   his   name,   and 

looked  at  a  coil  of  rope, 
And  the  man  crouched  down  in  abject  fear — how 

could  he  dare  to  hope? 

The  captain  had  just  been  thinking  of  the  books  his 

mother  read, 
Of  a  Saviour  born  on  Christmas  Day,  who  bowed 

on  the  cross  His  head; 
Blending  the  thought  of  his  mother's  tears  with  the 

holy  mother's  grief, — 
And  when  he  saw  San  Sabatan,  he  thought  of  the 

dying  thief. 

He  spoke  to  the  men  in  whispers,  and  they  heeded 

the  words  he  said, 
And  brought  to  the  perishing  robber — water  and 

meat  and  bread. 
He  ate  and  drank  like  a  famished  wolf,  and  then  lay 

clown  to  rest, 
.  And  the  camp,  perchance,  had  a  stiller  feast  for  its 

strange  Christmas  guest. 

But  or  ever  the  morning  dawned  again,  the  cap- 
tain touched  his  hand: 

"  Here  is  a  horse,  and  some  meat  and  bread;  fly  to 
the  Rio  Grande! 


220         ARBITRATION  AND   CIVILIZATION. 

Fly  for  your  life!     We  follow  hard;  touch  nothing 

on  your  way — 
Your  life   was   only   spared   because   'twas   Jesus 

Christ's  birthday." 

He  watched  him  ride  as  the  falcon  flies,  then  turned 

to  the  breaking  day; 
The  men  awoke,  the  Christmas  berries  were  quietly 

cast  away; 
And,  full  of  thought,  they  saddled  again,  and  rode 

off  into  the  west — 
May  God  be  merciful  to  them,  as  they  were  to  their 

guest ! 


ARBITRATION   AND    CIVILIZATION. 

By  SIR  CHARLES  RUSSELL,  Statesman,  Orator,  Jurist.  B. 
1833,  Ireland.  Early  in  life  he  was  a  parliamentary  leader- 
writer  for  a  Catholic  journal.  He  was  called  to  the  Bar  in 
1859  and  became  a  Queen's  Counsel  in  1872.  He  was  a 
Liberal  member  of  Parliament  in  1880,  1885,  and  1886,  and 
in  the  latter  year  he  became  Attorney  General  under  Mr. 
Gladstone  and  was  knighted.  He  is  now  Lord  Chief  Jus- 
tice of  England. 

An  extract  from  an  address  delivered  at  Convention 
Hall,  Saratoga  Springs,  N.  Y.,  August  20,  1896,  before  the 
American  Bar  Association,  at  their  Nineteenth  Annual 
Convention. 

WHO  can  say,  in  spite  of  the  important  respects 
in  which  the  evils  of  war  have  been  mitigated  and 
the  progress  of  international  comity,  that  these 
times  breathe  the  spirit  of  peace?  There  is  war  in 
the  air.  Nations  armed  to  the  teeth  prate  of  peace, 
but  there  is  no  sense  of  peace.  One  sovereign  bur- 


ARBITRAl^lON  AND    CIVILIZATION.          221 

dens  the  industry  of  his  people  to  maintain  mili- 
tary and  naval  armaments  at  war  strength,  and  his 
neighbor  does  the  like,  and  justifies  it  by  the 
example  of  the  other;  and  England,  insular  though 
she  be,  with  her  imperial  interests  scattered  the 
world  over,  follows,  or  is  forced  to  follow,  in  the 
wake.  If  there  be  no  war,  there  is  at  best  an  armed 
peace.  The  normal  cost  of  the  armaments  of  war 
has  of  late  years  enormously  increased.  The  an- 
nual interest  on  the  public  debt  of  the  great  Powers 
is  a  war  tax.  Behind  this  array  of  facts  stands  a 
tragic  figure.  It  tells  a  dismal  tale.  It  speaks  of 
overburdened  industries,  of  a  waste  of  human 
energy  unprofitable  engaged,  of  the  squandering  of 
treasure  which  might  have  let  light  into  many  lives, 
of  homes  made  desolate,  and  all  this,  too  often, 
without  recompense  in  the  thought  that  these  sacri- 
fices have  been  made  for  the  love  of  country  or  to 
preserve  national  honor  or  for  national  safety. 
When  will  governments  learn  the  lesson  that  wis- 
dom and  justice  in  policy  are  a  stronger  security 
than  weight  of  armament? 

Ah  !  when  shall  all  men's  good 

Be  each  man's  rule,  and  universal  peace 

Lie,  like  a  shaft  of  light,  across  the  land. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  men — earnest  men — enthu- 
siasts, if  you  like,  impressed  with  the  evils  of  war, 
have  dreamt  the  dream  that  the  millennium  of 
peace  might  be  reached  by  establishing  a  universal 
system  of  international  arbitration. 


222         ARBITRATION  AND    CIVILIZATION. 

The  cry  of  peace  is  an  Old  World  cry.  It  has 
echoed  through  all  the  ages,  and  arbitration  has 
long  been  regarded  as  the  handmaiden  of  peace. 
In  our  own  times  the  desire  has  spread  and  grown 
strong  for  peaceful  methods  for  the  settlement  of 
international  disputes.  The  reason  lies  on  the  sur- 
face. Men  and  nationo  are  more  enlightened;  the 
grievous  burden  of  military  armaments  is  sorely 
felt,  and  in  these  days  when,  broadly  speaking,  the 
people  are  enthroned,  their  views  find  free  and  for- 
cible expression  in  a  worldwide  press. 

Experience  has  shown  that  over  a  large  area 
international  differences  may  honorably,  practi- 
cally, and  usefully  be  dealt  with  by  peaceful  arbitra- 
ment. There  have  been  since  1815  some  sixty 
instances  of  effective  international  arbitration.  To 
thirty-two  of  these  the  United  States  have  been  a 
party  and  Great  Britain  to  some  twenty  of  them. 

But  are  we  thence  to  conclude  that  the  millen- 
nium of  peace  has  arrived — that  the  dove  bearing 
the  olive  branch  has  returned  to  the  ark,  sure  sign 
that  the  waters  of  international  strife  have  perma- 
nently subsided? 

I  am  not  sanguine  enough  to  lay  this  flattering 
unction  to  my  soul.  Unbridled  ambition,  thirst  for 
wide  dominion,  pride  of  power  still  hold  sway, 
although,  I  believe,  with  lessened  force  and  in  some 
sort  under  the  restraint  of  the  healthier  opinion  of 
the  world. 

But  further,  friend  as  I  am  of  peace,  I  would  yet 
affirm  that  there  may  be  even  greater  calamities 


ARBITRATION  AND   CIVILIZATION.         "3 

than  war — the  dishonor  of  a  nation,  the  triumph  of 
an  unrighteous  cause,  the  perpetuation  of  hopeless 
and  debasing  tyranny: 

War  is  honorable, 

In  those  who  do  their  native  rights  maintain  : 
In  those  whose  swords  an  iron  barrier  are, 
Between  the  lawless  spoiler  and  the  weak  ; 
But  is,  in  those  who  draw  th'  offensive  blade 
For  added  power  or  gain,  sordid  and  despicable. 

It  behooves,  then,  all  who  are  friends  of  peace 
and  advocates  of  arbitration  to  recognize  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  question,  to  examine  and  meet  these 
difficulties,  and  to  discriminate  between  the  cases 
in  which  friendly  arbitration  is,  and  in  which  it 
may  not  be,  practically  possible. 

Must  we  then  say  that  the  sphere  of  arbitration  is 
a  narrow  and  contracted  one?  By  no  means! 
The  sanctions  which  restrain  the  wrongdoer,  the 
breaker  of  public  faith,  the  disturber  of  the  peace 
of  the  world,  are  not  weak,  and,  year  by  year,  they 
wax  stronger.  They  are  the  dread  of  war  and  the 
reprobation  of  mankind.  Public  opinion  is  a  force 
which  makes  itself  felt  in  every  corner  and  cranny 
of  the  world,  and  is  most  powerful  in  the  communi- 
ties most  civilized.  In  the  public  press  and  in  the 
telegraph  it  possesses  agents  by  which  its  power  is 
concentrated  and  speedily  brought  to  bear  where 
there  is  any  public  wrong  to  be  exposed  and  repro- 
bated. It  year  by  year  gathers  strength  as  general 
enlightenment  extends  its  empire  and  a  higher 
moral  altitude  is  attained  by  mankind.  It  has  no 


224        ARBITRATION  AND   CIVILIZATION. 

ships  of  war  upon  the  seas  or  armies  in  the  field, 
and  yet  great  potentates  tremble  before  it  and 
humbly  bow  to  its  rule. 

It  would,  indeed,  be  a  reproach  to  our  nineteen 
centuries  of  Christian  civilization  if  there  were  now 
no  better  method  for  settling  international  differ- 
ences than  the  cruel  and  debasing  methods  of  war. 
May  we  not  hope  that  the  people  of  these  States 
and  the  people  of  the  mother  land — kindred 
peoples — may,  in  this  matter,  set  an  example  of 
lasting  influence  to  the  world?  They  are  blood 
relations.  They  are  indeed  separate  and  inde- 
pendent peoples,  but  neither  regards  the  other  as  a 
foreign  nation. 

We  boast  of  our  advance  and  often  look  back 
with  pitying  contempt  on  the  ways  and  manners  of 
generations  gone  by.  Are  we  ourselves  without 
reproach?  Has  our  civilization  borne  the  true 
marks?  Must  it  not  be  said,  as  has  been  said  of 
religion  itself,  that  countless  crimes  have  been  com- 
mitted in  its  name?  Probably  it  was  inevitable 
that  the  weaker  races  should  in  the  end  succumb; 
but  have  we  always  treated  them  with  consideration 
and  with  justice?  Has  not  civilization  too  often 
been  presented  to  them  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet, 
and  the  Bible  by  the  hand  of  the  filibuster?  And 
apart  from  races  we  deem  barbarous,  is  not  the 
passion  for  dominion  and  wealth  and  power  ac- 
countable for  the  worst  chapters  of  cruelty  and 
oppression  written  in  the  world's  history?  Few 
peoples — perhaps  none — are  free  from  this  re- 


ARBITRATION  AND   CIVILIZATION.          22$ 

proach.  What,  indeed,  is  true  civilization?  By 
its  fruit  you  shall  know  it.  It  is  not  dominion, 
wealth,  material  luxury;  nay,  not  even  a  great  liter- 
ature and  education  widespread — good  though 
these  things  be.  Civilization  is  not  a  veneer;  it 
must  penetrate  to  the  very  heart  and  core  of  socie- 
ties of  men. 

Its  true  signs  are  thought  for  the  poor  and  suffer- 
ing; chivalrous  regard  and  respect  for  woman,  the 
frank  recognition  of  human  brotherhood,  irre- 
spective of  race  or  color  or  nation  or  religion ;  the 
narrowing  of  the  domain  of  mere  force  as  a  govern- 
ing factor  in  the  world;  the  love  of  ordered  free- 
dom; abhorrence  of  what  is  mean  and  cruel  and 
vile;  ceaseless  devotion  to  the  claims  of  justice. 
Civilization  in  that,  its  true,  its  highest  sense,  must 
make  for  peace.  We  have  solid  grounds  for  faith 
in  the  future.  Government  is  becoming  more  and 
more,  but  in  no  narrow  class  sense,  government  of 
the  people,  by  the  people,  and  for  the  people.  Pop- 
ulations are  no  longer  moved  and  maneuvered 
as  the  arbitrary  will  or  restless  ambition  or  caprice 
of  kings  or  potentates  may  dictate.  And  although 
democracy  is  subjected  to  violent  gusts  of  passion 
and  prejudice,  they  are  gusts  only.  The  abiding 
sentiment  of  the  masses  is  for  peace — for  peace  to 
live  industrious  lives  and  to  be  at  rest  with  all  man- 
kind. With  the  prophet  of  old  they  feel — though 
the  feeling  may  find  no  articulate  utterance — "  how 
beautiful  upon  the  mountains  are  the  feet  of  him 
that  bringeth  good  tidings,  that  publisheth  peace." 


226  THE   COLONELS  STORY. 

THE    COLONEL'S    STORY. 

By  ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS. 
Copyright  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York 

IT  is  in  battle,  Antietam,  some 

Call  it  Sharpsburg,  down  in  the  corn 

Shells  are  bursting,  minie  balls  hum, 
Saving  the  reapers  trouble,  and  borne 

Along  the  line  from  the  charging  right 

Comes  the  roar  of  the  midday  fight. 

Here  are  two  regiments,  one  in  gray, 
The  other  in  blue — so  very  near, 

Barely  a  score  of  yards  away, — 

You  fairly  see  the  passions  play 
Across  the  faces  and  you  hear — 
I  hear  it  now,  the  yell  and  cheer, 

As  firing  into  each  other's  faces, 

The  men  load,  fire,  and  drop  in  their  places. 

Fingers  that  never  seem  to  tire 
To  load  and  fire  and  load  and  fire, — 
Faces  grimy  with  powder  and  sweat, — 
Eyes  with  the  gleam  of  the  bayonet, — 

One  thought  blazing  in  old  and  young, 
The  wish  the  minie  ball  always  sung; 
And  that  was  frankly,  murder,  although 
In  battle  we  seldom  call  it  so. 

In  such  a  fire  one  side  must  break; 


THE    COLONEL'S  STORY.  227 

And  suddenly  under  the  drifting  smoke 
I  saw  the  gray  line  all  but  broke 
And  seemed  to  be  flinching,  when  a  man 
Bearing  a  flag  sprang  out  of  the  van, 
Back  to  his  own  and  face  to  the  foe 
Between  the  regiments,  to  and  fro, 
Flaunting  his  flag; — a  moment  or  so 
And  all  was  over. 

Perhaps  you  think 
Men  in  the  heat  of  battle  shrink 

From  shooting  a  man  for  some  gallant  act, 
Some  deed  like  that — Ah,  well!  I  know 
In  fiction  they  often  tell  us  so, — 

Hardly,  I  fear,  it  holds  in  fact; 
"Shoot  the  fool  with  the  flag!"  they  said: 
A  hundred  minie  balls  stretched  him  dead. 

Down  he  fell,  all  shrouded  about 

With  the  poor  torn  rag  that  he  served  so  well ; 

We  fired  again,  and  then  with  a  yell 
Charged,  and  they  broke  to  the  rear  in  rout. 
We  wrenched  the  flag — it  is  war's  hard  way — 
From  the  grasp  of  the  dead  man  where  he  lay. 

Dead?     Oh,  yes!  but  think  of  the  life 
He  lived  for  reward  in  that  little  space 

When  far  above  the  smoke  and  strife 
His  courage  flew,  and  from  his  place, 

Waving  his  flag  from  its  riddled  mast, 
He  sprang  out,  facing  the  shrinking  line 


228  CHILDREN'S  RIGHTS. 

And  knew  the  next  moment  would  be  his  last!- 
Why,  all  he  needed  to  be  divine 
Was  death,  and  that  came  on  apace! 

Perhaps  in  some  pleasant  Southern  State 
Some  there  were  to  wonder  and  wait, — 
To  start  at  the  beat  of  a  passing  drum 
And  long  for  a  step  that  would  never  come. 


CHILDREN'S  RIGHTS. 

By  MRS.  KATE  DOUGLAS  WIGGIN  RIGGS,  Author,  Philan- 
thropist. B.  Philadelphia  ;  resides  in  New  York. 

An  extract  from  "Children's  Rights,"  copyrighted  in 
1892  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston. 

ONCE  a  child  is  born,  one  of  his  inalienable  rights, 
which  we  too  often  deny  him,  is  the  right  to  his 
childhood. 

If  we  could  only  keep  from  untwisting  the  morn- 
ing-glory, only  be  willing  to  let  the  sunshine  do  it! 
Dickens  said  real  children  went  out  with  powder 
and  top-boots;  and  yet  the  children  of  Dickens' 
time  were  simple  buds  compared  with  the  full- 
blown miracles  of  conventionality  and  erudition 
we  raise  nowadays. 

There  is  no  substitute  for  a  genuine,  free,  serene, 
healthy,  bread-and-butter  childhood.  A  fine  man- 
hood or  womanhood  can  be  built  on  no  other  foun- 
dation; and  yet  our  American  homes  are  so  often 
filled  with  hurry  and  worry,  our  manner  of  living  is 
so  keyed  to  concert  pitch,  our  plan  of  existence  so 


CHILDREN'S  RIGHTS.  229 

complicated,  that  we  drag  the  babies  along  in  our 
wake,  and  force  them  to  our  artificial  standards, 
forgetting  that  "  sweet  flowers  are  slow,  and  weeds 
make  haste." 

In  the  matter  of  clothing,  we  sacrifice  children 
continually  to  the  "  Moloch  of  maternal  vanity,"  as 
if  the  demon  of  dress  did  not  demand  our  atten- 
tio'n,  sap  our  energy,  and  thwart  our  activities  soon 
enough  at  best.  And  the  right  kind  of  children, 
before  they  are  spoiled  by  fine  feathers,  do  detest 
being  "  dressed  up  "  beyond  a  certain  point. 

A  tiny  maid  of  my  acquaintance  has  an  elaborate 
Parisian  gowrn,  which  is  fastened  on  the  side  from 
top  to  bottom  in  some  mysterious  fashion,  by  a 
multitude  of  tiny  buttons  and  cords.  It  fits  the 
dear  little  mouse  like  a  glove,  and  terminates  in 
a  collar  which  is  an  instrument  of  torture  to  a  per- 
son whose  patience  has  not  been  developed  from 
year  to  year  by  similar  trials.  The  getting  of  it  on 
is  anguish,  and  as  to  the  getting  of  it  off,  I  heard 
her  moan  to  her  nurse  the  other  night,  as  she 
wriggled  her  curly  head  through  the  too-small  exit, 
"  Oh!  only  God  knows  how  I  hate  gettin'  peeled 
out  o'  this  dress !  " 

The  spectacle  of  a  small  boy  whom  I  meet  some- 
times in  the  horse-cars,  under  the  wing  of  his  pre- 
destinate idiot  of  a  mother,  wrings  my  very  soul. 
Silk  hat,  ruffled  shirt,  silver-buckled  shoes,  kid 
gloves,  cane,  velvet  suit,  with  one  two-inch  pocket 
which  is  an  insult  to  his  sex, — how  I  pity  the  pa- 
thetic little  caricature!  Xot  a  spot  has  he  to  locate 


230  CHILDREN'S  RIGHTS. 

a  top,  or  a  marble,  or  a  nail,  or  a  string,  or  a  knife, 
or  a  cooky,  or  a  nut ;  but  as  a  bloodless  substitute 
for  these  necessities  of  existence,  he  has  a  toy  watch 
(that  will  not  go)  and  an  embroidered  handkerchief 
with  cologne  on  it. 

As  to  keeping  children  too  clean  for  any  mortal 
use,  I  suppose  nothing  is  more  disastrous.  The 
divine  right  to  be  gloriously  dirty  a  large  portion 
of  the  time,  when  dirt  is  a  necessary  consequence 
of  direct,  useful,  friendly  contact  with  all  sorts  of 
interesting,  helpful  things,  is  too  clear  to  be  denied. 

The  children  who  have  to  think  of  their  clothes 
before  playing  with  the  dogs,  digging  in  the  sand, 
helping  the  stableman,  working  in  the  shed,  build- 
ing a  bridge  or  weeding  the  garden,  never  get  half 
their  legitimate  enjoyment  out  of  life.  And  un- 
happy fate,  do  not  many  of  us  have  to  bring  up 
children  without  a  vestige  of  a  dog,  or  a  sand  heap, 
or  a  stable,  or  a  shed,  or  a  brook,  or  a  garden! 
Conceive,  if  you  can,  a  more  difficult  problem  than 
giving  a  child  his  rights  in  a  city  flat.  You  may 
say  that  neither  do  we  get  ours ;  but  bad  as  we  are, 
we  are  always  good  enough  to  wish  for  our  chil- 
dren the  joys  we  miss  ourselves. 

Thrice  happy  is  the  country  child,  or  the  one 
who  can  spend  a  part  of  his  young  life  among  living 
things,  near  to  Nature's  heart.  How  blessed  is  the 
little  toddling  thing  who  can  lie  flat  in  the  sunshine 
and  drink  in  the  beauty  of  the  "  green  things  grow- 
ing," who  can  live  among  the  other  little  animals, 
his  brothers  and  sisters  in  feathers  and  fur;  who  can 


AUNT    TABITHA.  231 

put  his  hand  in  that  of  dear  mother  Nature,  and 
learn  his  first  baby  lessons  without  any  meddlesome 
middleman;  who  is  cradled  in  sweet  sounds  "  from 
early  morn  to  dewy  eve,"  lulled  to  his  morning  nap 
by  hum  of  crickets  and  bees,  and  to  his  night's 
slumber  by  the  sighing  of  the  wind,  the  plash  of 
waves,  or  the  ripple  of  a  river.  He  is  a  part  of  the 
"  shining  web  of  creation,"  learning  to  spell  out  the 
universe  letter  by  letter  as  he  grows  sweetly,  se- 
renely, into  a  knowledge  of  its  laws. 


AUNT  TABITHA. 

ANONYMOUS. 

WHATEVER  I  do,  and  whatever  I  say, 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  that  isn't  the  way; 
When  sJic  was  a  girl  (forty  summers  ago) 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  they  never  did  so. 

Dear  aunt!     If  I  only  would  take  her  advice! 
But  I  like  my  own  way,  and  I  find  it  so  nice! 
And  besides,  I  forget  half  the  things  I  am  told; 
But  they  all  will  come  back  to  me — when  I  am  old. 

If  a  youth  passes  by,  it  may  happen,  no  doubt, 
He  may  chance  to  look  in  as  I  chance  to  look  out; 
She  would  never  endure  an  impertinent  stare; 
It  is  horrid,  she  says,  and  I  mustn't  sit  there. 


232  AUNT   TAB1THA. 

A  walk  in  the  moonlight  has  pleasure,  I  own, 
But  it  isn't  quite  safe  to  be  walking  alone; 
So  I  take  a  lad's  arm — just  for  safety,  you  know — 
But  Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  they  didn't  do  so. 

How  wicked  we  are,  and  how  good  they  were  then! 
They  kept  at  arm's  length  those  detestable  men; 
What  an  era  of  virtue  she  lived  in!     But  stay — 
Were  the  men  all  such  rogues  in  Aunt  Tabitha's 
day? 

If  the  men  were  so  wicked,  I'll  ask  my  papa 
How  he  dared  to  propose  to  my  darling  mamma; 
Was  he  like  the  rest  of  them?    Goodness!     Who 

knows? 
And  what  shall  I  say,  if  a  wretch  should  propose? 

I  am  thinking  if  aunt  knew  so  little  of  sin, 

What  a  wonder  Aunt  Tabitha's  aunt  must  have 
been! 

And  her  grand-aunt — it  scares  me — how  shock- 
ingly sad 

That  we  girls  of  to-day  are  so  frightfully  bad! 

A  martyr  will  save  us,  and  nothing  else  can ; 

Let  me  perish — to  rescue  some  wretched  young 

man! 

Though  when  to  the  altar  a  victim  I  go, 
Aunt  Tabitha  '11  tell  me  she  never  did  so! 


FIVE  MINUTES  WITH  A  MAD  DOG.         233 

FIVE   MINUTES   WITH   A   MAD   DOG. 

By  W.  POCKLINGTON. 

LAST  week  I  received  orders  to  go  to  the  Britan- 
nia public  house,  in  Soho,  and  poison  a  large  re- 
triever belonging  to  the  landlord.  My  master  had 
seen  the  dog  during  his  rounds,  and  found  it  in  a 
dangerously  rabid  state.  I  rilled  a  small  bottle  with 
hydrocyanic  acid,  and,  taking  a  syringe,  went  off 
at  once  to  see  about  it.  There  being  no  yard  to 
the  house,  they  had  chained  the  dog  down  in  the 
cellar  to  a  staple  in  the  wall.  "  'E's  a  wery  bad  case, 
sir,"  said  my  guide,  "  an'  I'll  be  glad  when  it's  all 
over;  for,  although  'e  was  a  great  pet  with  us  all, 
an'  that  fond  of  the  kids  you  never  see,  it's  awful 
to  see  'im  not  know  any  of  us,  but  when  we  goes 
near  'im  to  'ave  'im  come  a-flying  at  us.  Think 
'e'll  suffer  much?  There  'e  goes!  'ear  'im!  All 
day  long  'e  'owls  like  that."  I  assured  him  it 
would  soon  be  over  without  much  pain,  and  de- 
scending some  steps,  we  passed  through  a  room  in 
the  basement  that  was  dimly  lit  by  a  small  and 
grimy  window.  Cases  of  wines  and  spirits  were 
ranged  against  the  walls,  and  we  could  hear  the 
tramp  of  the  thickly  shod  customers  in  the  bar  or 
taproom  just  above  our  heads.  Opening  a  door, 
we  passed  into  another  room;  this  was  lighted 
only  by  a  small  window  in  the  room  we  had  just 
left,  as  it  shone  through  the  now  open  door. 


234         FIVE  MINUTES  WITH  A  MAD  DOG. 

"  He's  in  there,"  said  the  boy,  pointing  to  another 
door  in  the  wall  opposite. 

Thinking  there  was  a  window  in  the  room,  I 
pushed  the  door  open,  and  immediately  heard  the 
rattle  of  a  chain  and  the  hoarse  half  howl,  half 
growl  of  the  poor  beast,  whose  eyes  I  could  see 
against  the  far  wall  gleaming  through  the  dark. 
Window  there  was  none. 

"Why  on  earth  didn't  you  bring  a  light?"  I 
asked  angrily;  "you  don't  suppose  I  can  poison 
him  in  the  dark?  " 

"  Thought  I  'ad  a  match,"  said  the  boy,  fumbling 
in  his  pockets;  "there's  a  gas  jet  just  inside  the 
door." 

I  had  no  matches,  so  I  sent  him  upstairs  to  get 
some,  and,  awaiting  his  return,  sat  down  on  an 
empty  keg  near  the  door. 

The  dog  seemed  uneasy,  and,  fancying  the  light 
through  the  doorway  annoyed  and  distressed  him, 
I  pushed  it  to  with  my  hand.  The  boy  was  some 
time  gone,  and  I  sat  there  thinking  over  the  job. 
The  air  of  the  cellar  was  close,  and  the  smell  of  the 
wet  sawdust  on  the  floor  was  most  unpleasant. 
Clank  went  the  dog's  chain  against  the  wall  or  the 
floor,  as  he  moved  uneasily  about,  wondering,  I 
dare  say,  what  was  my  errand  there.  Then  the 
movement  ceased  for  a  time,  or,  partly  absorbed  in 
my  thoughts,  I  failed  to  notice  it.  The  next  minute 
I  started,  feeling  something  rub  against  my  leg. 
Looking  clown.  I  saw  two  glaring  eyes  just  at  my 
knee.  The  dog  was  loose,  the  staple  having 


FIVE  MINUTES  WITH  A  MAD  DOG.         ^35 

worked  its  way  out  of  the  damp  and  yielding 
mortar. 

For  a  second  or  two  I  nearly  Jost  consciousness. 
My  heart  seemed  to  stand  still;  but  by  an  effort  I 
kept  from  going  off  into  a  faint.  I  shall  never  for- 
get the  next  few  minutes  as  long  as  I  live.  I  was 
alone  in  the  dark,  with  this  rabid  beast  rubbing 
against  me,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  find  out  who  I 
was.  Then  he  rested  his  nose  on  my  knees  and 
looked  straight  up  into  my  face.  I  sat  like  a 
statue,  knowing  that  at  the  slightest  movement  he 
would  probably  seize  me,  and  knowing  that  such  a 
bite  in  his  advanced  state  of  disease  was  almost  cer- 
tain death,  and  a  horrible  death  too.  Nerving 
myself,  I  sat  perfectly  still,  calculating  as  well  as  I 
could  my  chances  of  escape.  Presently  the  dog 
put  first  one  paw,  then  the  other,  on  my  knee,  and, 
standing  on  his  hind  legs,  gently  rubbed  his  head 
across  my  breast,  then  over  my  arms,  and  then 
commenced  to  explore  my  face,  covering  it  with 
saliva.  Yet  I  dared  not  move.  I  expected  every 
instant  he  would  seize  me;  the  very  beating  of  my 
heart  might  disturb  and  annoy  him;  and  I  felt  that, 
come  what  might,  I  must  fling  him  off  and  make  a 
dash  for  the  door. 

Suddenly  he  ceased  rubbing  against  me,  and  ap- 
peared to  be  listening.  He  could  hear  the  steps  of 
the  boy  descending  the  ladder.  I  also  could  hear 
it,  and  knew  not  whether  to  call  to  him  or  keep 
silent.  The  dog  now  dropped  down  to  my  knees 
again,  still  listening;  and  as  the  light  of  a  candle 


236  THE  NATION'S  DEAD. 

streamed  through  the  crevices  of  the  badly  fitting 
door  he  crept  into  the  far  corner  of  the  cellar,  evi- 
dently dreading  being  put  upon  the  chain  again. 
Then  I  made  a  dash  at  the  door,  swung  it  open, 
and,  banging  it  to  behind  me,  sank  more  dead  than 
alive  on  a  case  near  the  wall. 


THE   NATION'S   DEAD. 

ANONYMOUS. 

FOUR  hundred  thousand  men, 
The  brave — the  good — the  true, 

In  tangled  wood,  in  mountain  glen, 

On  battlefield,  in  prison  pen, 
Lie  dead  for  me  and  you! 

Four  hundred  thousand  of  the  brave 

Have  made  our  ransomed  soil  their  grave 

For  me  and  you! 
My  friend,  for  me  and  you ! 

In  many  a  fevered  swamp, 

By  many  a  black  bayou, 
In  many  a  cold  and  frozen  camp 
The  weary  sentinel  ceased  his  tramp 

And  died  for  me  and  you! 
From  Western  plains  to  ocean  tide 
Are  stretched  the  graves  of  those  who  died 
For  me  and  you! 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you! 


THE   NATION'S  DEAD.  237 

On  many  a  bloody  plain 

Their  ready  swords  they  drew 
And  poured  their  life-blood  like  the  rain, 
A  home — a  heritage  to  gain; 

To  gain  for  me  and  you! 
Our  brothers  mustered  by  our  side; 
They  marched,  they  fought,  and  bravely  died 
For  me  and  you! 

My  friend,  for  me  and  you! 

Up  many  a  fortress  wall 

They  charged — those  boys  in  blue — 
'Mid  surging  smoke,  the  volleyed  ball; 
The  bravest  were  the  first  to  fall ! 

To  fall  for  me  and  you! 
These  .noble  men — the  nation's  pride — 
Four  hundred  thousand  men  have  died, 

My  friend,  for  me  and  you! 

In  noisome  prison  hold 

Their  martyr  spirits  grew 
To  stature  like  the  saints  of  old, 
While,  amid  agonies  untold, 

They  starved  for  me  and  you! 
The  good,  the  patient,  and  the  tried, 
Four  hundred  thousand  men  have  died 
For  me  and  you! 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you! 

A  debt  we  never  can  repay 

To  them  is  justly  due, 
And  to  the  nation's  latest  day 


238  A   DIFFICULT  PROBLEM. 

Our  children's  children  still  shall  say, 

"  They  died  for  me  and  you!  " 
Four  hundred  thousand  of  the  brave 
Made  this,  our  ransomed  soil,  their  grave, 

For  me  and  you, 
My  friends,  for  me  and  you! 


A  DIFFICULT  PROBLEM. 

By  CHARLOTTE  W.  THURSTON,  in  Far  and  Near.   Resides 
in  Massachusetts. 

THERE  is  something  that  fills  me  with  wonder, 
That  I've  pondered  and  pondered  again: 

With  so  many  remarkable  children 
Why  so  few  remarkable  men? 

I  have  questioned  Columbus: — he  answered, 

"  That  egg  was  a  mere  bagatelle!  " 
And  at  Delphi  no  hint  of  solution 

From  the  lips  of  the  Oracle  fell. 
I  began  on  this  problem  at  twenty, 

Am  no  wiser  at  threescore  and  ten; — 
In  a  world  of  remarkable  children 

Why  so  few  remarkable  men? 

It  was  CEdipus  answered  me  sadly, 
Slowly  shaking  his  hoary  old  locks 

From  a  forehead  that  late  had  grown  furrowed, 
"  That  solution  my  intellect  mocks; 


WHAT  IS    WORTH    WHILE.  239 

I  have  pondered  this  riddle  for  ages; 

This  is  something  surpasses  my  ken: — 
With  so  many  remarkable  children 

Why  so  few  remarkable  men?" 

It  is  certainly  true  of  these  children, 

For,  in  doubt  if  my  data  were  right, 
I've  appealed  on  all  sides  to  the  mothers, 

And  the  fathers  agreed  with  them  quite. 
Yet  I  turned,  lest  they  might  be  mistaken, 

To  the  aunts  and  the  grandmothers  then; 
They  were  even  more  strong  in  conviction. 

But  oh,  where  their  remarkable  men? 

I  have  thought  it  all  over  and  over; 

Not  a  ray  on  my  darkness  will  fall ; 
When  the  world  is  so  full  of  these  children, 

Who  can  tell  what  becomes  of  them  all? 
Ah,  my  hair  that  was  golden  is  silvered; 

I  will  lay  down  both  problem  and  pen. 
Oh,  this  world  of  remarkable  children 

And  so  few  remarkable  men ! 


WHAT   IS  WORTH   WHILE. 

By  MRS.  SAMUEL  LINDSAY,  nde  Anna  Robertson  Brown, 
Ph.  D.,  Author.  Resides  at  Phi'arlelphia. 

An  extract  from  "  What  Is  Worth  While,"  published  by 
Thomas  Y.  Crowell  &  Co.,  Boston. 

THIS  is  the  great  danger,  and  a  grave  one  it  is, 
that  is  apt,  at  some  time  or  other,  to  confront  us 
all — the  danger  of  substituting  some  intellectual 


24°  W 'HAT  IS    WORTH    WHILE. 

ambition  for  the  ordinary , hitman  affections.  I  do 
not  know  how  to  speak  strongly  enough  on  this 
subject,  and  yet  gently  enough.  Ambition  is,  in 
many  ways,  the  most  deadly  foe  we  have — the  most 
deadly  foe  to  our  character,  I  mean.  Little  by  little 
that  intellectual  ambition  will  draw  us  away,  if  we 
are  not  careful,  from  our  true  place  in  life,  and  will 
make  cold,  unloved,  and  unhelpful  women  of  us, 
instead  of  the  joyous,  affectionate,  and  unselfish 
women  we  might  have  been.  We  need  not  try  to 
annihilate  ambition,  but  let  us  keep  it  in  bounds; 
let  us  see  to  it  that  it  holds  a  just  proportion  in  our 
lives.  We  need  not  let  our  talents  lie  idle,  nor 
neglect  to  make  the  most  of  them;  there  is  a  place 
and  a  grand  work  for  them  all;  but  let  us  keep 
their  development  forever  subordinate  to  simple 
human  duties,  usually  at  home.  Very  few  lives  are 
free — free  to  go  and  come,  travel,  read,  study,  write, 
think,  paint,  sing,  at  will.  In  the  lives  of  most 
women  these  gifts  are  an  aside  in  life,  as  it  were,  an 
underneath.  Most  of  us  are  beset  with  loving  calls 
of  toil,  care,  responsibility,  and  quiet  duties,  which 
we  must  recognize,  heed,  obey. 

We  must  love  our  mothers  more  than  Greek  dia- 
lects. If  the  instinct  of  daughter,  sister,  wife,  or 
mother  dies  out  of  a  college-bred  woman,  even  in 
the  course  of  a  most  brilliant  career  otherwise,  the 
world  will  forget  to  love  her;  it  will  scorn  her,  and 
justly.  If  she  does  not  make  her  surroundings 
homelike  wherever  she  is,  whether  she  be  teacher, 
artist,  musician,  doctor,  writer,  daughter  at  home, 


OUR   COUNTRY.  241 

or  a  mother  in  her  household ;  and  if  she  herself  is 
not  cheery  and  loving,  dainty  in  dress,  gentle  in 
manner,  and  beautiful  in  soul  as  every  true  woman 
ought  to  be,  the  world  will  feel  that  the  one  thing 
needful  is  lacking, — vivid,  tender  womanliness, — 
for  which  no  knowledge  of  asymptotes  or  linguis- 
tics can  ever  compensate.  It  is  better  for  a  woman 
to  fill  a  simple  human  part  lovingly,  better  for  her 
to  be  sympathetic  in  trouble  and  to  whisper  a  com- 
forting message  into  but  one  grieving  ear,  than  that 
she  should  make  a  path  to  Egypt  and  lecture  to 
thousands  on  ancient  Thebes. 


OUR  COUNTRY. 

By  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER,  Poet.     B.   1807,  Massa- 
chusetts ;  d.  1892,  New  Hampshire. 

WE  give  thy  natal  day  to  hope, 

O  Country  of  our  love  and  prayer! 

Thy  way  is  down  no  fatal  slope, 
But  up  to  freer  sun  and  air. 

Tried  as  by  furnace-fires,  and  yet 
By  God's  grace  only  stronger  made, 

In  future  task  before  thee  set 

Thou  shalt  not  lack  the  old-time  aid. 

The  fathers  sleep,  but  men  remain 
As  wise,  as  true,  and  brave  as  they; 

Why  count  the  loss  and  not  the  gain? — 
The  best  is  that  we  have  to-day. 


242  OUR   COUNTRY. 

From  the  warm  Mexic  Gulf,  or  where 
Belted  with  flowers  Los  Angeles 

Basks  in  the  semi-tropic  air, 
To  where  Katahdin's  cedar  trees 

Are  dwarfed  and  bent  by  Northern  winds 
Thy  plenty's  horn  is  yearly  filled; 

Alone,  the  rounding  century  finds 
Thy  liberal  soil  by  free  hands  tilled. 

A  refuge  for  the  wronged  and  poor, 

Thy  generous  heart  has  borne  the  blame 

That,  with  them,  through  thy  open  door, 
The  Old  World's  evil  outcasts  came. 

But,  with  thy  just  and  equal  rule, 

And  labor's  need  and  breadth  of  lands, 

Free  press  and  rostrum,  church  and  school, 
Thy  sure,  if  slow,  transforming  hands 

Shall  mold  even  them  to  thy  design, 
Making  a  blessing  of  the  ban ; 

And  Freedom's  chemistry  combine 
The  alien  elements  of  the  man. 


Thy  great  world  lesson  all  shall  learn, 
The  nations  in  the  school  shall  sit, 

Earth's  farthest  mountain-tops  shall  burn 
With  watch-fires  from  thy  own  uplit. 


THE  MARTYR-SPY.  243 

Great  without  seeking  to  be  great 
By  fraud  or  conquest,  rich  in  gold, 

But  richer  in  the  large  estate 

Of  virtue  which  thy  children  hold. 

With  peace  that  comes  of  purity 
And  strength  to  simple  justice  due, 

So  run  our  loyal  dreams  of  thee; 
God  of  our  fathers! — make  it  true. 

O  Land  of  lands!  to  thee  we  give 
Our  prayers,  our  hopes,  our  service  free; 

For  thee  thy  sons  shall  nobly  live, 
And  at  thy  need  shall  die  for  thee! 


THE  MARTYR-SPY. 

By  CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER,  Author,  Editor.  B.  1829, 
Massachusetts ;  lives  in  New  York,  and  is  editor  of 
Harper's  Magazine 

From  an  address  delivered  at  the  unveiling  of  the  Hale 
statue,  June  16,  1887,  at  Hartford,  Conn. 

IT  is  the  deed  and  the  memorable  last  words  we 
think  of  when  we  think  of  Hale.  For  all  the 
man's  life,  all  his  character,  flowered  and  bloomed 
into  immortal  beauty  in  this  one  supreme  moment 
"of  self-sacrifice,  triumph,  defiance.  The  ladder 
on  which  the  deserted  boy  stood  amidst  the  ene- 
mies of  his  country,  when  he  uttered  those  last 
words,  wrhich  all  human  annals  do  not  parallel  in 
simple  patriotism — the  ladder,  I  am  sure,  ran  up 


242  OUR   COUNTRY. 

From  the  warm  Mexic  Gulf,  or  where 
Belted  with  flowers  Los  Angeles 

Basks  in  the  semi-tropic  air, 
To  where  Katahdin's  cedar  trees 

Are  dwarfed  and  bent  by  Northern  winds 
Thy  plenty's  horn  is  yearly  filled; 

Alone,  the  rounding  century  finds 
Thy  liberal  soil  by  free  hands  tilled. 

A  refuge  for  the  wronged  and  poor, 

Thy  generous  heart  has  borne  the  blame 

That,  with  them,  through  thy  open  door, 
The  Old  World's  evil  outcasts  came. 

But,  with  thy  just  and  equal  rule, 

And  labor's  need  and  breadth  of  lands, 

Free  press  and  rostrum,  church  and  school, 
Thy  sure,  if  slow,  transforming  hands 

Shall  mold  even  them  to  thy  design, 
Making  a  blessing  of  the  ban ; 

And  Freedom's  chemistry  combine 
The  alien  elements  of  the  man. 


Thy  great  world  lesson  all  shall  learn, 
The  nations  in  the  school  shall  sit, 

Earth's  farthest  mountain-tops  shall  burn 
With  watch-fires  from  thy  own  uplit. 


THE  MARTYR-SPY.  243 

Great  without  seeking  to  be  great 
By  fraud  or  conquest,  rich  in  gold, 

But  richer  in  the  large  estate 

Of  virtue  which  thy  children  hold. 

With  peace  that  comes  of  purity 
And  strength  to  simple  justice  due, 

So  run  our  loyal  dreams  of  thee; 
God  of  our  fathers! — make  it  true. 

O  Land  of  lands!  to  thee  we  give 

Our  prayers,  our  hopes,  our  service  free; 

For  thee  thy  sons  shall  nobly  live, 
And  at  thy  need  shall  die  for  thee! 


THE  MARTYR-SPY. 

By  CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER,  Author,  Editor.  B.  1829, 
Massachusetts ;  lives  in  New  York,  and  is  editor  of 
Harper's  Magazine 

From  an  address  delivered  at  the  unveiling  of  the  Hale 
statue,  June  16,  1887,  at  Hartford,  Conn. 

IT  is  the  deed  and  the  memorable  last  words  we 
think  of  when  we  think  of  Hale.  For  all  the 
man's  life,  all  his  character,  flowered  and  bloomed 
into  immortal  beauty  in  this  one  supreme  moment 
of  self-sacrifice,  triumph,  defiance.  The  ladder 
on  which  the  deserted  boy  stood  amidst  the  ene- 
mies of  his  country,  when  he  uttered  those  last 
words,  which  all  human  annals  do  not  parallel  in 
simple  patriotism — the  ladder,  I  am  sure,  ran  up 


246  THE   "NEW   WOMAN." 

THE  "  NEW  WOMAN." 
By  E.  MATHESON  in  Chamber -s's  Journal. 

SHE  does  not  "  languish  in  her  bower," 

Or  squander  all  the  golden  day 
In  fashioning  a  gaudy  flower 

Upon  a  worsted  spray. 
Nor  is  she  quite  content  to  wait, 

Behind  her  "  rose-wreathed  lattice  pane," 
Until  beside  her  father's  gate 

The  gallant  "  prince  draws  rein." 

The  brave  "  new  woman  "  scorns  to  sigh 

And  count  it  "  such  a  grievous  thing  " 
That  year  on  year  should  hurry  by 

And  no  gay  suitor  bring. 
In  labor's  ranks  she  takes  her  place, 

With  skillful  hands  and  cultured  mind, 
Not  always  foremost  in  the  race, 

But  never  far  behind. 

And  not  less  lightly  fall  her  feet 

Because  they  tread  the  busy  ways. 
She  is  no  whit  less  fair  and  sweet 

Than  maids  of  olden  days, 
Who,  gowned  in  samite  or  brocade, 

Looked  charming  in  their  dainty  guise, 
But  dwelt  like  violets  in  the  shade 

With  shy,  half-opened  eyes. 


OUR   COUNTRY.  247 

Of  life  she  takes  a  clearer  view, 

And  through  the  press  serenely  moves 

Unfettered,  free,  with  judgment  true, 
•  Avoiding  narrow  grooves. 

She  reasons,  and  she  understands, 

And  sometimes  'tis  her  joy  and  crown 

To  lift  with  strong  yet  tender  hands 
The  burdens  men  lay  down. 


OUR   COUNTRY. 

By  BENJAMIN  HARRISON,  Statesman,  ex-President  of  the 
United  States.  B.  1833,  Indiana. 

Extract  from  a  speech  delivered  in  the  New  York  Music 
Hall,  November  i,  1894. 

I  WISH  we  could  banish  epithets  from  our  public 
discussion.  I  wish  we  could  get  our  people  all  to 
understand  that  when  we  have  prosperous  times 
they  are  good  for  everybody;  not  equally — one 
may  gain  more  than  another;  but  when  we  have 
good  times  everybody  shares  them  in  his  measure. 
And  when  we  have  evil  times  every  man  shares  the 
sorrow  of  them.  We  are  in  our  social  and  civil 
life  so  knit  together  that  it  is  an  impossible  condi- 
tion of  things  when  the  times  can  be  prosperous  for 
some  of  our  people  and  disastrous  for  others.  Let 
us  take  that  lesson  to  our  hearts.  Let  us  put  bit- 
terness out  of  them.  Let  us  stop  these  envyings 
and  these  jealousies,  and  look  at  these  questions 
from  the  standpoint  of  a  common  love  for  a  com- 


248  OUR    COUNTRY. 

mon  country  and  a  brotherhood  among  the  citi- 
zens of  that  land.  I  think  that  the  great  masses  of 
every  political  creed  and  of  every  religion  are  pa- 
triotic lovers  of  their  country,  and  that,  according 
to  their  lights,  they  are  willing  to  serve  it.  It  is  a 
country  worthy  of  the  love  of  us  all.  It  has  a  noble 
history;  a  history  illustrated  by  great  deeds;  a  his- 
tory sanctified  by  great  sacrifices;  a  history  that  has 
set  in  the  galaxy  of  the  world's  great  statesmen 
some  enduring  names ;  a  history  that  has  set  in  the 
rolls  of  the  military  chieftains  names  that  are  at  the 
top ;  a  country  that  has  fought  a  great  war  to  a  suc- 
cessful issue  without  a  standing  army;  a  country 
that  has  preserved  a  vast  domain,  domestic  peace, 
and  individual  security;  a  country  that  has  riches 
untold;  a  country  whose  flag  the  world  recognizes 
as  the  emblem  of  a  great  Powrer  resting  upon  the 
affection  of  its  own  people.  It  is  worthy  of  our 
love.  It  should  be  before  everything  else  but  God. 
Wife,  children,  mother,  lover — all  these  men  have 
put  aside  for  it,  and  they  have  poured  out  their 
blood  in  its  defense,  glad  that  they  might  thus  con- 
tribute to  the  security  of  their  country  and  the 
honor  of  the  flag. 


DECORA  TION  DA  Y.  249 


DECORATION   DAY. 

By  HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH,  Poet.  B.  1839,  Rhode 
Island. 

From  "  Songs  of  History,  Poems  and  Ballads,"  copyright 
by  New  England  Publishing  Company,  Boston. 

WHENE'ER  we  meet  the  friends  once  fondly  cher- 
ished, 

And  hands  all  warm  with  old  affection  take, 
Then  let  us  breathe  the  names  of  those  who  per- 
ished 
On  fields  of  honor,  for  their  country's  sake. 

They  come  no  more  when  springtime  birds  are 
singing, 

When  trills  the  swallow  'neath  the  shady  eaves, 
When  light  in  air  the  summer  bells  are  swinging 

Above  the  ripple  of  the  tender  leaves. 

They  come  no  more  when  bugles  sweet  are  blowing 
The  notes  of  peace,  on  Freedom's  natal  days ; 

They  hear  no  more,  in  softened  numbers  flowing, 
The  strain  that  tells  the  patriot  hero's  praise. 

They  come  no  more  when  village  bells  are  ringing 
In  fragrant  airs,  above  the  river  calm; 

They  join  no  more  the  tuneful  voices  singing, 
At  rosy  eve,  the  old  familiar  psalm. 

They  come  no  more  when  festive  boards  are  laden, 
They  smile  no  more  when  Friendship  charms 
the  hours, 


250  MA  TUKE. 

They  meet  no  more  with  airy  steps  the  maiden 
Whom  loving  hands  have  diademed  with  flowers. 

Tis  ours  to  smile  on  other  lips  of  beauty, 
To  other  hearts  in  happy  days  to  turn; 

'Twas  theirs  to  perish  on  the  field  of  duty, 
And  rest  in  silence  'neath  the  moss  and  fern. 

They  gave  their  all : — our  love  to  them  returning 
Shall  make  an  altar  near  their  ashes  still, 

When  Sabbath  sunsets  on  the  vale  are  burning, 
And  summer  twilights  fade  upon  the  hill. 


NATURE. 

By  EDWARD  EVERETT,  Statesman,  Orator,  Author.  B. 
1794,  Massachusetts  ;  d.  1865,  Boston. 

An  address  delivered  before  the  Union  Agricultural 
Society  of  Adams.  Rodman,  and  Lorraine,  Jefferson 
County,  New  York,  September  12,  1861. 

IN  the  mysterious  .economy  of  Nature,  the  hus- 
bandman is  the  immediate  co-worker  with  Provi- 
dence; he  learns  to  look  upon  the  soil,  with  its 
recreative  powers,  the  seed  with  its  undeveloped 
germ  of  manifold  increase,  the  elements  of  growth 
in  earth,  and  water,  and  light,  and  air,  as  one  vast 
system  of  machinery,  waiting  to  be  called  into 
action  for  the  sustenance  of  man,  by  his  own  indus- 
trious co-operation. 

We  have  all  looked  with  interest  and  pleasure  on 
some  noble  factory,  filled  with  ingenious  machin- 
ery, constructed  of  metal,  wood,  and  leather; 


NATURE.  251 

wheels  and  ratchets,  and  cams;  motions  direct,  re- 
ciprocating, and  eccentric;  cylinders,  and  spindles, 
and  looms,  with  all  their  springs,  and  screws,  and 
bolts,  skillfully  fitted,  and  polished,  and  oiled,  and 
geared,  above  and  below,  from  the  foundation  to 
the  roof;  all  waiting  for  the  controlling  hand  of 
man  to  move  the  lever,  and  start  the  entire  system 
into  life  and  action. 

So,  and  with  admiration  increased  by  all  the 
superiority  of  the  works  of  God  over  the  works  of 
man,  when  we  look  on  this  wondrous  and  beautiful 
earth,  with  all  its  capacities  for  the  supply  of  human 
want, — the  varieties  of  soil,  clay,  and  lime  and  sand, 
in  all  their  mixtures;  enriching  loams  and  marls; 
organic  fertilizers;  the  bubbling  spring,  the  irrigat- 
ing stream,  the  sheltering  wood  and  hill;  the 
changing  seasons;  the  strange  circulation  of  vapor 
and  cloud  and  rain;  the  solar  ray  shooting  from 
the  upper  sky,  latent  heat  and  electric  fire  pervad- 
ing all  creation;  the  marvelous  structure  of  the 
vegetable  world;  seed,  and  root,  and  stalk,  and  leaf, 
and  bud,  and  flower,  and  fruit,  and  grain,  each  after 
its  kind,  endless  in  form  and  quality,  the  food,  the 
cordial,  the  medicine,  the  clothing  of  man,  draw- 
ing each  its  peculiar  nutriment  from  the  soil, — we 
may  regard  them  as  forming  together  one  vast 
system  of  machinery,  the  work  of  the  Divine 
Artificer,  waiting  for  intelligent  and  industrious 
man  to  turn  the  furrow,  and  scatter  the  seed,  and 
reap  the  harvest ;  and  thus  give  their  motion  to  the 
mystic  spindles  from  which  Nature  draws  out  the 


252  A   BRAVE  LITTLE   GIRL. 

fibers  of  vegetable  life ;  and  the  bountiful  looms  on 
which  she  weaves  into  the  tissue  of  the  year,  for 
the  comfort  of  her  children,  the  gorgeous  tints  of 
spring  and  the  golden  fruits  of  autumn. 


A  BRAVE  LITTLE  GIRL. 

ANONYMOUS. 

JUST  one  more  kiss  for  good-night,  mamma; 

Just  one  more  kiss  for  good-night, 
And  then  you  may  go  to  my  dear  papa, 

And — yes — you  may  put  out  the  light, 
For  I'll  promise  you  truly  I  won't  be  afraid, 

As  I  was  last  night.     You'll  see, 
'Cause  I'm  going  to  be  papa's  brave  little  maid, 

As  he  told  me  I  ought  to  be. 

But  the  shadows  won't  seem  so  dark,  mamma, 

If  you'll  kiss  me  a  little  bit  more, 
And  you  know  I  can  listen  and  know  where  you  are 

If  you  only  won't  shut  the  door. 
For  if  I  can  hear  you  talking,  I  think 

It  will  make  me  so  sleepy,  maybe, 
That  I'll  go  to  sleep  just  as  quick  as  a  wink 

And  forget — to  cry  like  a  baby. 

You  needn't  be  laughing,  my  mamma  dear, 
While  you're  hugging  me  up  so  tight. 

You  think  I  am  trying  to  keep  you  here, 
You  and — I  guess — the  light. 


THE    WANDERER'S  NIGHT- SONG.  253 

Please  kiss  me  good-night  once  more,  mamma, 

I  could  surely  my  promise  keep 
If  you'd  only  stay  with  me  just  as  you  are, 

And  kiss  me  till — I  go  to  sleep. 


THE   WANDERER'S   NIGHT-SONG. 

By  THOMAS  CONRAD  PORTER,  Teacher,  Author.  B.  1822, 
Pennsylvania  ;  resides  at  Easton,  Pa.,  as  Professor  Emeri- 
tus at  Lafayette  College . 

The  extract  given  is  a  translation  from  Goethe.  This 
beautiful  lyric  was  written  by  the  poet  at  night  upon  the 
wall  of  a  little  hermitage  on  the  Kickbahn.  a  hill  in  the 
forest  of  Ilmenau,  where  he  composed  the  last  act.  of  his 
"  Iphigenia." 

UEBER  alien  Gipfeln 

1st  Ruh'; 

In  alien  Wipfeln 

Sptirest  du 

Katim  einen  Hauch; 

Die  Vogelein  schweigen  im  Walde; 

Warte  nur,  balde 

Ruhest  du  auch. 

Over  all  the  hill-tops 

Quiet  reigns  now; 

In  all  the  tree-tops 

Scarce  stirs  a  bough, 

By  zephyr  caressed; 

Ceased  in  the  grove  has  the  little  bird's  song; 

Wait!  and  ere  long 

Thou  too  shalt  rest, 


254          MR.   HAINES' S  ABLE  ARGUMENT. 

MR.    RAINES'S   ABLE   ARGUMENT. 

As  recited  by  MR.  EDWIN  B.  HAY,  Washington,  D.  C. 
From  Arkansaiv  Traveller. 

JUDGE  MEXFORD,  one  of  the  sternest  jurists  in 
Kentucky,  took  his  judgment  seat  one  morning 
with  an  angry  thump.  The  officers  of  the  court 
spoke  in  whispers,  and,  from  time  to  time,  cast  sly 
glances  at  an  old  fellow  named  Haines. 

"  Mr.  Haines,"  said  the  judge  severely,  turning 
to  the  old  man,  "  why  did  you,  after  having  been 
regularly  installed  as  a  juryman,  fail  to  make  your 
appearance  here  yesterday  and  the  day  before?  " 

"Your  Honor,' I " 

The  judge  snapped  savagely.  "  I  know  what 
you  are  going  to  say,  sir.  You  are  going  to  put 
up  a  pitiful  story  about  your  wife  being  sick." 

"  No,  your  Honor,  my  wife  is  in  'bout  ez  good 
health  ez  any  reasonable  size  woman  I  ever  seed. 
She  weighs  about  two  hundred  and  forty,  and " 

"  Mr.  Clerk,"  exclaimed  the  judge,  "  enter  up  a 
fine  of  ten  dollars  against  this  man  for  calling  his 
wife  a  woman  of  reasonable  size.  Don't  be  flurried, 
Mr.  Haines,  for  we  have  not  reached  the  main 
issue.  I  suppose,"  added  the  judge,  "  that  you 
were  kept  away  on  account  of  your  own  illness." 

"  No,  your  Honor,  I  aint  had  better  health  in 
twenty  odd  years  than  I've  had  lately." 

"Ah!"  said  the  judge,  "your  horse,  then,  must 
have  jumped  out  of  the  lot  and  run  away,  leaving 
you  in  a  helpless  condition." 


MR.    HALVES'S  ABLE   ARGUMENT.          255 

"  No,  your  Honor,  my  ole  nag  has  stuck  right 
by  me." 

''  Then,  sir,"  said  the  judge,  "  you  had  no 
excuse  whatever.  Why  should  I  not  impose  a  fine 
of  one  hundred  dollars  on  you?  Ah,  I  see  that 
you  are  going  to  throw  yourself  upon  the  mercy  of 
the  court.  I'll  show  you  what  justice  is,  regardless 
of  mercy." 

"  I  aint  goin'  ter  ax  fur  no  mercy  an'  none  sich, 
jedge,"  the  old  fellow  replied.  "  I've  jest  nachully 
got  a  defense,  an'  atter  yo'  git  through  a-blowin'  uv 
yo'  ho'n  w'y  I'll  set  up  my  defense,  an'  let  you 
walk  round  it,  admirin'  ov  the  piece  ov  work." 

The  judge  became  furious.  "  I  think,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "  that  about  six  months  in  the  county  jail 
will  teach  you  how  to  speak  to  this  court  with  a 
little  more  respect.  You  talk,  sir,  as  if  you  were 
going  to  build  a  house,  and  then  see  this  court  walk 
around  with  its  hands  under  its  coat  tails,  admir- 
ing it." 

"  Yas,  jedge,  that's  putty  much  the  way  I  talk. 
I  aint  much  acquainted  with  you,  understand,  an' 
aint  never  felt  uv  yo'  principles  ez  a  man,  an'  in 
settin'  up  my  defense  I'll  have  ter  take  my  chances 
on  you  bein'  a  man.  Now  jest  listen  ter  me  with 
the  ear  uv  patience  till  I  git  through.  Tuther  day 
me  and  Zeb  Gillispie — the  gentleman  who  shot  old 
man  Stoveall  two  years  ago  come  next  June — wuz 
a-walkin'  through  the  woods,  an'  whut  should  we 
do  but  find  a  kag  all  kivered  with  moss.  Zeb  aint 
a  man  that  ken  stan'  much  excitement,  so  he 


256          MR.   HAINES'S  ABLE  ARGUMENT. 

drapped  down  on  his  knees  right  thar,  be  did,  an' 
the  beads  uv  sweat  stood  out  on  his  forrid  like 
warts  on  a  toad  fraug.  I  knowed  that  he  wuz  face 
to  face  with  sumthin'  uv  a  onusual  natur,  but  some- 
how I  couldn't  zactly  tell  what  it  wuz,  so  I  put  my 
hand  on  Zeb's  head  an'  says, '  Keerful,  now,  Zebbie, 
keerful ! '  He  looked  at  me  an'  says,  '  Bill,  you  don't 
know  whut  has  tuck  place.  Man,  this  here  kag  all 
kivered  with  moss  hyar  wuz  hid  out  by  ole  man 
Mason  all  durin'  the  war,  an'  is  full  uv  licker.' 
Then  I  drapped.  We  spread  our  han's  on  that  ar 
kag,  an'  lifted  up  our  thanks  thar  in  the  wilderness. 
We  tuck  the  kag  ter  my  house,  an'  gun  ter  draw 
off  some  uv  her  life's  blood.  Jedge,  I  may  not 
have  a  good  idee  erbout  a  good  many  things,  but 
when  it  comes  ter  settin'  in  jedgment  on  licker,  why, 
the  folks  out  my  way  jest  hand  me  the  tin  cup  an' 
say  nuthin';  and,  sir,  I  wanter  say  that  I  never 
tasted  sich  licker  ez  that  wuz.  Why,  sir,  the  fust 
drink  uv  it  made  me  ricolleck  with  kindness  a 
feller  that  shot  at  me — and,  sir,  the  nex'  drink 
made  me  plum  furgit  this  here  cou't.  Me  and  Zeb 
tilted  our  cheers  back  agin  the  wall,  an'  cast  looks 
uv  deep  tenderness  on  that  ar  kag.  The  hours  that 
had  been  walkin'  soon  struck  a  trot,  an'  then, 
rollin'  up  ther  britches,  they  galloped  away.  Could 
I,  ez  a  man — I  ax  you,  jedge,  could  I,  ez  much  of 
a  human  ez  I  am,  leave  that  kag  an'  come  here  an' 
lissen  ter  lawyers  talk  erbout  the  line  fence,  an'  the 
hog  that  disappeared  suddenly  an'  wuz  afterward 
found  under  a  nigger's  bed?  " 


LULLABY.  257 

"  Mr.  Haines,"  said  the  judge,  attempting  to  con- . 
trol  himself,  "  this  court,  with  its  coat  tails,  is  walk- 
ing around,  admiring  the  beautiful  architecture  of 
your  defense — Mr.  Clerk,  wipe  out  everything 
against  Mr.  Haines.  Now,  Mr.  Haines,  a  word 
with  you.  Have  you  got  any  of  that  liquor  left?  " 

"  The  kag  is  still  moist,  yo'  Honor." 

"  How  far  do  you  live  from  here?  " 

"  'Bout  fifteen  miles." 

"  Mr.  Sheriff,  this  court  stands  adjourned  until 
some  time  next  week.  Mr.  Haines,  give  me  your 
hand,  sir." 


LULLABY. 

* 

By  THOMAS  DAVIDSON,   Philoscpher,   Author.     B.  1840, 
Scotland  ;  resides  in  Italy. 
From  "  Danae"  (Roberts  Brothers,  copyright). 

HUSH  thee,  sweet  baby, 
Hush  thee  to  sleep! 
Dark  though  thy  way  be 
Over  the  deep. 

Jove  is  not  wearied 
Watching  the  waves; 
Neptune  and  Nereid, 
All  are  his  slaves. 

Neptune  is  swinging 
Thee  on  his  breast; 
Nereids  are  singing 
Thee  to  thy  rest. 


258  CASE   OF  GO  HANG. 

Lights  without  number 
Shine  in  the  skies; 
Night  in  thy  slumber 
Veileth  thine  eyes. 

Morning  will  meet  thee 
Safe  on  the  shore ; . 
Princes  shall  greet  thee: 
"Wander  no  more!" 

Hush  thee,  sweet  baby, 
Hush  thee  to  sleep! 
Dark  though  thy  way  be 
Over  the  deep! 


CASE  OF  GO  HANG. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE  American  Liner  Pennland  arrived  last  night 
from  Liverpool  with  three  hundred  steerage  pas- 
sengers— German,  English,  and  Irish.  The  candi- 
dates for  an  American  hearth  and  home  made  their 
little  procession  to  the  wickets  and  meekly  re- 
sponded to  the  inquiries  of  the  immigration  inspect- 
ors, declaring  well  and  truly  whether  they  were 
millionaires  in  disguise  and  where  they  intended  to 
locate.  They  went  through  in  one,  two,  three 
order  until  a  small  immigrant  appeared  with  black, 
horsetail  hair  and  twisted  eyes.  The  inspector 


CASE   OF  GO  HANG.  259 

looked  at  him  cautiously  and  asked  his  name  on 
suspicion. 

"Go  Hang!" 

"  Don't  be  fresh,  Li  Hung;  what's  your  name?" 

"Go  Hang!"  answered  the  oblique-eyed  mys- 
tery. 

"  Oh,  it's  Go  Hang,  is  it?  Chinese,  I  suppose; 
where's  your  papers?  " 

"No  China;  Ilish." 

"  Irish,  is  it?  Why  didn't  you  say  Scandi- 
navian? " 

Go  stuck  to  it  that  he  was  Irish.  Inspector 
Hogan,  who  is  a  connoisseur  in  the  ancient  and 
modern  tongues,  was  summoned  as  referee. 

"  Phwat!  "  exclaimed  Hogan,  as  soon  as  he  laid 
eyes  on  Go.  "  That  moon-faced  mandarin  a  Chris- 
tian Oirishman!  The  bones  o'  the  Hogans  would 
turn  somersaults  in  their  graves  to  hear  ut.  An' 
phat  is  the  name  it  has?" 

"  Go  Hang." 

Inspector  Hogan  now  put  the  mystery  through 
a  little  civil  service  examination  as  to  Ireland  and 
its  history. 

"  How  far  is  ut  from  Dublin  to  Cork?  " 

Go  made  no  response. 

"  Phwat  wuz  the  last  wurruds  of  th'  immortal 
Robert  Emmet  before  th'  English  kilt  'im?  " 

"Go  Hang!"  responded  the  mystery  hesitat- 
ingly. 

"  Bedad!  he's  roight! "  cried  Hogan,  aston- 
ished. The  immigrant  perceived  he  had  made  an 


260  TWO   COLORS. 

impression,  and  plucked  up  some  confidence. 
Hogan  tried  him  again : 

"  Phwat  noble  nayshun  wuz  Bryan  Boru  king 
of?" 

"Ilish?" 

"Be  Heavens,  ut's  witchcraft!"  muttered  Ho- 
gan, and  he  looked  dazed.  "  Oi'll  give  ye  a  harrud 
wan  now,  and  if  ye  answer  ut,  bedad!  Oi'll  pass  ye 
into  th'  United  States.  Which  soide  wuz  licked  at 
th'  battle  o'  Fontenoy?" 

"Ilish!" 

"Ye'realoiar!" 

The  inspectors  had  to  give  it  up,  and  they  sent 
Go  Hang  back  to  the  ship,  until  Collector  Read 
could  pass  upon  his  case.  Inspector  Hogan,  when 
summoned  this  morning  to  give  his  opinion,  said: 

"He  luks  loike  a  Choinayman;  he  thinks  loike 
an  Orangeman,  and  he  talks  loike  a  loiar.  He's 
no  good." 


TWO  COLORS. 

As  recited  by  MR.  EDWIN  B.  HAY,  of  Washington,  D.  C. 
From  the  Springfield  Republican. 

"  OH,  mother,  what  do  they  mean  by  blue? 

And  what  do  they  mean  by  gray?  " 
I  heard  from  the  lips  of  a  child 

As  she  bounded  in  from  her  play. 
The  mother's  eyes  were  filled  with  tears; 

She  turned  to  her  darling  fair, 


TWO   COLORS.  261 

And  smoothed  away  from  the  sunny  brow 
The  treasure  of  golden  hair. 

"  Why,  mother's  eyes  are  blue,  my  sweet, 

And  grandpa's  hair  is  gray. 
And  the  love  we  bear  our  darling  child 

Grows  stronger  every  day." 
"  But  what  did  they  mean?  "  maintained  the  child, 

"  For  I  saw  two  cripples  to-day, 
And  one  of  them  said  he  had  '  fought  for  the  blue,' 

The  other  had  fought  '  for  the  gray.' 

"  The  one  of  the  blue  had  lost  a  leg, 

And  the  other  had  but  one  arm, 
And  both  seemed  worn  and  weary  and  sad, 

Yet  their  greeting  was  kind  and  warm. 
They  told  of  battles  in  days  gone  by, 

Till  it  made  my  blood  run  chill. 
The  leg  was  lost  in  the  Wilderness  fight 

And  the  arm  on  Malvern  Hill. 

"  They  sat  on  the  stone  by  the  farmyard  gate 

And  talked  for  an  hour  or  more, 
Till  their  eyes  grew  bright  and  their  hearts  seemed 
warm 

With  fighting  their  battles  o'er; 
And  parted  at  last  with  a  friendly  grasp, 

In  a  kindly,  brotherly  way, 
Each  asking  Gcd  to  speed  the  time 

Uniting  the  blue  and  the  gray." 


262  THE    WONDERFUL    WEAVER. 

Then  the  mother  thought  of  other  days, 

Two  stalwart  boys  from  her  riven; 
How  they'd  knelt  at  her  side,  and  lisping,  prayed: 

"  Our  Father,  which  art  in  Heaven;  " 
How  one  wore  the  gray  and  the  other  the  blue; 

How  they  passed  away  from  sight, 
And  had  gone  to  the  land  where  gray  and  blue 

Merge  in  tints  of  celestial  light. 

And  she  answered  her  darling  with  golden  hair, 

While  her  heart  was  sorely  wrung 
With  the  thoughts  awakened  in  that  sad  hour 

By  her  innocent,  prattling  tongue: 
"  The  blue  and  the  gray  are  the  colors  of  God, 

They  are  seen  in  the  sky  at  even, 
And  many  a  noble,  gallant  soul 

Has  found  them  passports  to  Heaven." 


THE   WONDERFUL   WEAVER. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THERE'S  a  wonderful  weaver 

High  up  in  the  air. 
And  he  weaves  a  white  mantle 

For  cold  earth  to  wear; 
With  the  wind  for  its  shuttle, 

The  cloud  for  its  loom. 
How  he  weaves,  how  he  weaves, 

In  the  light,  in  the  gloom. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  BENNINGTON  263 

Oh,  with  finest  of  laces 

He  decks  bush  and  tree! 
On  the  bare  flinty  meadows 

A  cover  lays  he ; 
Then  a  quaint  cap  he  places 

On  pillar  and  post, 
And  he  changes  the  pump 

To  a  grim,  silent  ghost. 

But  this  wonderful  weaver 

Grows  weary  at  last, 
And  the  shuttle  lies  idle 

That  once  flew  so  fast; 
Then  the  sun  peeps  abroad 

On  the  work  that  is  done; 
And  he  smiles:  "  I'll  unravel 

It  all  just  for  fun!" 


THE    BATTLE    OF    BENNINGTON. 

By  EDWARD  JOHN  PHELPS,  Jurist,  Professor  of  Law.  B. 
1822,  Vermont. 

Extract  from  oration  at  the  dedication  of  the  Bennington 
Battle  Monument  on  the  usth  anniversary  of  the  battle, 
August  1 6,  1891. 

General  John  Stark,  the  hero  of  Bennington,  attacked  an 
intrenched  force  under  Colonel  Frederick  Baum  and  de- 
feated it. 

A  short  time  after  another  force  sent  from  Burgoyne's 
army,  under  Colonel  Breyman,  was  totally  defeated.  Only 
about  one  hundred  of  the  whole  British  force  of  a  thousand 
escaped. 

HISTORY  is  full  of  battles.  All  its  pages  are 
stained  with  blood.  Instruments,  for  the  most 
part,  of  ambition,  of  tyranny,  and  of  crime.  It 


264  THE  BATTLE   OF  BENNINGTON. 

would  have  been  well  for  the  world  to  be  spared  the 
misery  they  wrought.  It  would  be  well  for  its  his- 
tory if  their  memory  could  perish.  But  there  have 
been  battles  nevertheless  whose  smoke  went  up 
like  incense;  consecrated  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  by 
the  cause  they  maintained. 

If  battles  were  to  be  accounted  great  in  propor- 
tion to  the  numbers  engaged,  Bennington  would 
be  but  small.  In  comparison  with  Marathon, 
and  Waterloo,  and  Gettysburg,  it  was  in  that  view 
only  an  affair  of  outposts.  But  it  is  not  numbers 
alone  that  give  importance  to  battlefields.  The 
fame  of  Thermopylae  would  not  have  survived  had 
the  Greeks  been  a  great  army  instead  of  three  hun- 
dred. It  is  the  cause  that  is  fought  for,  the  heroism 
and  self-sacrifice  displayed,  and  the  consequences 
which  follow,  moral  and  political  as  well  as  mili- 
tary, that  give  significance  to  conflicts  of  arms. 
Judged  by  these  standards,  Bennington  may  well 
be  reckoned  among  the  memorable  battles  of  the 
world. 

It  was,  on  our  side,  the  people's  fight.  No  Gov- 
ernment directed  or  supplied  it;  no  regular  force 
was  concerned;  it  was  a  part  of  no  organized  cam- 
paign. New  Hampshire  sent  her  hastily  embodied 
militia,  not  the  less  volunteers.  In  Vermont  and 
Massachusetts  it  was  the  spontaneous  uprising  of  a 
rural  and  peace-loving  population,  to  resist  inva- 
sion, to  defend  their  homes,  to  vindicate  their  right 
of  self-government.  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill 
were  in  this  respect  its  only  parallels  in  the  Revolu- 
tionary War. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BENNINGTON.        265 

Full  justice  has  been  done,  in  history  and  tradi- 
tion, to  the  bravery  and  patriotism  of  John  Stark. 
But  his  great  qualities  as  a  general  have  not  been 
set  forth  as  they  deserve.  No  better  piece  of  mili- 
tary work  was  seen  in  the  Revolution  than  he  did  in 
that  brief  and  sudden  campaign. 

The  British  commander  proceeded  with  the  cau- 
tion the  importance  of  his  expedition  demanded. 
When  he  found  that  he  must  fight,  and  perceived 
the  resolute  and  thorough  soldiership  of  Stark's 
movements,  he  chose  a  position  with  excellent 
judgment,  intrenched  himself  strongly,  and  placed 
his  troops  and  guns  to  the  best  advantage.  Stark 
could  not  wait  as  he  would  have  done,  for  his 
enemy's  advance.  He  was  unable  to  subsist  his 
ill-provided  forces  long,  nor  could  he  keep  them 
from  homes  that  were  suffering  for  their  presence. 
His  only  chance  was  to  attack  at  once,  and  his  dis- 
positions for  it,  most  ably  seconded  by  Warner,  his 
right-hand  man,  were  masterly  beyond  criticism. 
He  had  no  artillery,  no  cavalry,  no  transportation, 
no  commissariat  but  the  women  on  the  farms.  Half 
of  his  troops  were  without  bayonets,  and  even  am- 
munition had  to  be  husbanded.  He  lacked  every- 
thing but  men,  and  his  men  lacked  everything  but 
hardihood  and  indomitable  resolution.  Upon  all 
known  rules  and  experience  of  warfare,  the  success- 
ful storming,  by  a  hastily  organized  militia,  of  an 
intrenched  position  at  the  top  of  a  hill,  held  by  an 
adequate  regular  force,  would  have  been  declared 
impossible.  But  it  was  the  impossible  that  hap- 


266  THE  BATTLE   OF  BENNINGTON. 

pened,  in  a  rout  of  the  veterans  that  amounted  to 
destruction.  History  and  literature,  eloquence  and 
poetry,  have  combined  to  enshrine  in  the  memory 
of  mankind  those  decisive  charges,  at  critical  mo- 
ments, by  which  great  battles  have  been  won,  and 
epochs  in  the  life  of  nations  determined.  I  set 
against  the  splendor  of  them  all  that  final  onset  up 
yonder  hill  and  over  its  breastworks  of  those  New 
England  farmers,  on  whose  faces  desperation  had 
kinded  the  supernatural  light  of  battle  which 
never  shines  in  vain.  They  were  fighting  for  all 
they  had  on  earth,  whether  of  possessions  or  of 
rights.  They  could  not  go  home  defeated,  for  they 
would  have  no  homes  to  go  to.  The  desolate  land 
that  Burgoyne  would  have  left,  New  York  would 
have  taken.  Not  a  man  was  on  the  field  by  com- 
pulsion, or  upon  the  slightest  expectation  of  per- 
sonal advantage  or  reward.  The  spirit  which  made 
the  day  possible  was  shown  in  that  Stephen  Fay, 
of  Bennington,  who  had  five  sons  in  the  fight. 
When  the  first-born  was  brought  home  to  him 
dead,  "  I  thank  God,"  he  said,  "  that  I  had  a  son 
willing  to  give  his  life  for  his  country." 


OUR  HOMEMAKER.  267 

OUR   HOMEMAKER. 

By  ADELINE  DUTTON  TRAIN  WHITNEY,  Author.     B.  1824 
Massachusetts. 

WHERE  the  mountains  slope  to  the  westward, 

And  their  purple  chalices  hold 
The  new-made  wine  of  the  sunset, 

Crimson  and  amber  and  gold — 
In  this  old,  wide-open  doorway, 

With  the  elm  boughs  overhead, 
The  house  all  garnished  behind  her. 

And  the  plentiful  table  spread, 
She  has  stood  to  welcome  our  coming, 

Watching  our  upward  climb, 
In  the  sweet  June  weather  that  brought  us, 

Oh!  many  and  many  a  time! 
To-day,  in  the  gentle  splendor 

Of  the  early  summer  noon — 
Perfect  in  sunshine  and  fragrance, 

Although  it  is  hardly  June — 
Again  is  her  doorway  opened, 

And  the  house  is  garnished  and  sweet; 
But  she  silently  waits  for  our  coming, 

And  we  enter  with  silent  feet. 
A  little  within  she  is  waiting; 

Not  where  she  has  met  us  before; 
For  over  the  pleasant  threshold 

She  is  only  to  cross  once  more. 
The  smile  on  her  face  is  quiet, 

And  a  lily  is  on  her  breast, 


268  AMERICANISM. 

Her  hands  are  folded  together, 

And  the  word  on  her  lips  is  "  rest." 
And  yet  it  looks  like  a  welcome, 

For  her  work  is  compassed  and  done; 
All  things  are  seemly  and  ready, 

And  her  summer  is  just  begun. 
It  is  we  who  may  not  cross  over; 

Only  with  song  and  prayer 
A  little  way  into  the  glory 

We  may  reach,  as  we  leave  her  there. 
But  we  cannot  think  of  her  idle; 

She  must  be  a  homemaker  still; 
God  giveth  that  work  to  the  angels 

Who  fittest  the  task  fulfill ; 
And  somewhere  yet  in  the  hill-tops 

Of  the  country  that  hath  no  pain 
She  will  watch  in  her  beautiful  doorway 

To  bid  us  a  welcome  again. 


AMERICANISM. 

By  THEODORE  ROOSEVELT.  Author,  Assistant  Secretary  of 
the  Navy.  B.  1858,  New  York  ;  resides  in  Washington, 
D.  C. 

Selected  from  an  article  in  The  Forum. 

WE  Americans  have  many  grave  problems  to 
solve,  many  threatening  evils  to  fight,  and  many 
deeds  to  do,  if,  as  we  hope  and  believe,  we  have  the 
wisdom,  the  strength,  the  courage,  and  the  virtue 
to  do  them.  But  we  must  face  facts  as  they  are. 
We  musf  neither  surrender  ourselves  to  a  foolish 


AMERICANISM.  269 

optimism,  nor  succumb  to  a  timid  and  ignoble 
pessimism.  Our  nation  is  that  one  among  all  the 
nations  of  the  earth  which  holds  in  its  hands  the 
fate  of  the  coming  years.  We  enjoy  exceptional 
advantages,  and  are  menaced  by  exceptional  dan- 
gers; and  all  signs  indicate  that  we  shall  either  fail 
greatly  or  succeed  greatly.  I  firmly  believe  that 
we  shall  succeed;  but  we  must  not  foolishly  blink 
the  dangers  by  which  we  are  threatened,  for  that  is 
the  way  to  fail.  On  the  contrary,  we  must  soberly 
set  to  work  to  find  out  all  we  can  about  the  exist- 
ence and  extent  of  every  evil,  must  acknowledge  it 
to  be  such,  and  must  then  attack  it  with  unyielding 
resolution.  There  are  many  such  evils,  and  each 
must  be  fought  after  a  separate  fashion;  yet  there 
is  one  quality  which  we  must  bring  to  the  solution 
of  every  problem, — that  is,  an  intense  and  fervid 
Americanism.  We  shall  never  be  successful  over 
the  dangers  that  confront  us;  we  shall  never 
achieve  true  greatness,  nor  reach  the  lofty  ideal 
which  the  founders  and  preservers  of  our  mighty 
Federal  Republic  have  set  before  us,  unless  we  are 
Americans  in  heart  and  soul,  in  spirit  and  purpose, 
keenly  alive  to  the  responsibility  implied  in  the 
very  name  of  American,  and  proud  beyond  meas- 
ure of  the  glorious  privilege  of  bearing  it. 

We  believe  in  waging  relentless  war  on  rank- 
growing  evils  of  all  kinds,  and  it  makes  no  differ- 
ence to  us  if  they  happen  to  be  of  purely  native 
growth.  We  grasp  at  any  good,  no  matter  whence 
it  comes.  We  do  not  accept  the  evil  attendant 


270  THE  SAKD-PIPER. 

upon  another  system  of  government  as  an  adequate 
excuse  for  that  attendant  upon  our  own;  the  fact 
that  the  courtier  is  a  scamp  does  not  render  the 
demagogue  any  the  less  a  scoundrel.  But  it  re- 
mains true  that,  in  spite  of  all  our  faults  and  short- 
comings, no  other  land  offers  such  glorious  possi- 
bilities, to  the  man  able  to  take  advantage  of  them, 
as  does  ours;  it  remains  true  that  no  one  of  our 
people  can  do  any  work  really  worth  doing  unless 
he  does  it  primarily  as  an  American.  Our  soldiers 
and  statesmen  and  orators;  our  explorers,  our 
wilderness-winners,  and  commonwealth-builders, 
the  men  who  have  made  our  laws  and  seen  that 
they  were  executed;  and  the  other  men  whose 
energy  and  ingenuity  have  created  our  marvelous 
material  prosperity — all  these  have  been  men  who 
have  drawn  wisdom  from  the  experience  of  every 
age  and  nation,  but  who  have  nevertheless  thought, 
and  worked,  and  conquered,  and  lived,  and  died, 
purely  as  Americans;  and  on  the  whole  they  have 
done  better  work  than  has  been  done  in  any  other 
country  during  the  short  period  of  our  national 
life.  

THE  SAND-PIPER. 

By  CELIA  THAXTER,  Poet.     B.  1836,  New  Hampshire  ;  re- 
sides at  Appledore,  Isles  of  Shoals. 

ACROSS  the  narrow  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  sand-piper  and  I, 
And  fast  I  gather,  bit  by  bit, 

The  scattered  driftwood  bleached  and  dry. 


THE  SAND-PIPER.  271 

The  wild  waves  reach  their  hands  for  it, 
The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs  high, 

As  up  and  down  the  beach  we  flit, — 
One  little  sand-piper  and  I. 

Above  our  heads  the  sullen  clouds 

Scud  black  and  swift  across  the  sky; 
Like  silent  ghosts  in  misty  shrouds 

Stands  out  the  white  lighthouses  high. 
Almost  as  far  as  eye  can  reach, 

I  see  the  close-reefed  vessels  fly, 
As  fast  we  flit  along  the  beach, — 

One  little  sand-piper  and  I. 

I  watch  him  as  he  skims  along, 

Uttering  his  sweet  and  mournful  cry. 
He  starts  not  at  my  fitful  song, 

Or  flash  of  fluttering  drapery. 
He  has  no  thought  of  any  wrong; 

He  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye. 
Stanch  friends  are  we,  well  tried  and  strong, — 

The  little  sand-piper  and  I. 

Comrade,  where  wilt  thou  be  to-night, 

When  the  loosed  storm  breaks  furiously? 
My  driftwood  fire  will  burn  so  bright! 

To  what  warm  shelter  canst  thou  fly? 
I  do  not  fear  for  thee,  though  wroth 

The  tempest  rushes  through  the  sky: 
For  are  we  not  God's  children  both, 

Thou,  little  sand-piper,  and  I? 


272  LIFE   ON   THE  MOON. 

LIFE  ON  THE  MOON. 

By  HERBERT  A.  HOWE,  Author,  Teacher.  Professor  of 
Astronomy  in  the  University  of  Denver. 

From  "  Elements  of  Descriptive  Astronomy,"  published 
by  Silver,  Burdett  &  Co. 

ENOUGH  is  known  to  show  that  there  is  no 
such  animal  or  vegetable  life  on  the  moon  as  on 
the  earth.  It  is  a  land  of  death.  The  sky  is  a  pall 
of  black,  studded  with  stars  by  day  as  well  as  by 
night.  The  rising  sun,  unheralded  by  the  beauti- 
ful sky  tints  which  accompany  the  dawn  on  earth, 
darts  his  garish  beams  athwart  the  desolate  land- 
scape, causing  the  lofty  peaks  to  cast  long  shadows 
which  vie  with  the  sky  in  blackness.  No  bird  song 
greets  him;  there  is  no  rustle  of  a  breeze,  or  plash 
of  a  brook,  or  murmur  of  an  ocean.  Should  "  lips 
quiver  and  tongues  essay  to  speak,"  no  sound  from 
them  would  break  the  eternal  silence.  Dark  pits 
innumerable  yawn  on  every  hand.  The  silvery  rims 
of  mighty  craters  encircle  abysses  of  darkness.  As 
the  sun  slowly  rises  in  the  sky,  the  fierce  chill  of 
the  departing  night  is  slowly  mitigated;  but  no 
manlike  being  welcomes  returning  warmth. 

The  earth  hangs  continually  in  mid-heaven,  wax- 
ing from  crescent  to  full  and  waning  again,  swiftly 
spinning  on  its  axis  and  bringing  into  view  an  ever 
shifting  panorama  of  cloud  and  continent  and 
ocean.  No  star  forgets  to  shine ;  the  weird  glory  of 
the  solar  corona  and  the  fantastic  forms  of  the  pro- 
tuberances can  be  seen  in  all  their  beauty  by 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA    VISTA.  273 

screening  off  the  direct  light  of  the  sun.  The  Milky 
Way  girdles  the  sky,  bejeweled  with  thousands  of 
glittering  orbs.  The  eye  is  enchanted  by  the  glories 
above,  though  the  mind  shrinks  from  contempla- 
tion of  the  desolation  all  about.  After  fourteen 
terrestrial  days  have  elapsed,  the  long  shadows 
stretch  themselves  eastward,  the  sun  slowly  sinks 
beneath  the  western  horizon,  and  night  with  its  ter- 
rible rigors  of  cold  comes  on  apace.  Such  is  a 
lunar  day. 


THE  ANGELS   OF   BUENA  VISTA. 

By  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER,  Poet.     B.   1807,  Massa- 
chusetts ;  d.  1892,  New  Hampshire. 

SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward 

far  away, 
O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexican 

array, 
Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning?  are  they  far  or 

come  they  near? 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls  the 

storm  we  hear. 

"Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of 

battle  rolls; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying;  God  have  mercy 

on  their  souls! " 
Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning? — "  Over  hill  and 

over  plain, 
I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through  the 

mountain  rain." 


274  THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA    VISTA. 

Holy  Mother!  keep  our  brothers!  Look,  Ximena, 
look  once  more. 

"  Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly  as 
before, 

Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and  foe- 
man,  foot  and  horse, 

Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping 
down  its  mountain  course." 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena !  "  Ah !  the  smoke 
has  rolled  away: 

And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the 
ranks  of  gray. 

Hark!  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles!  there  the  troop 
of  Minon  wheels; 

There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the  can- 
non at  their  heels. 

"  Jesu,  pity!  how  it  thickens!  now  retreat  and  now 

advance ! 
Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Puebla's 

charging  lance! 
Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders;  horse  and 

foot  together  fall ; 
Like  a  plowshare  in  the  fallow,  through  them  plows 

the  Northern  ball." 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and 

frightful  on: 
Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost, 

and  who  has  won? 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA    VISTA.  275 

"Alas!  alas!  I  know  not;  friend  and  foe  together 

fall, 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living:  pray,  my  sisters, 

for  them  all! 

"Lo!    the    wind    the    smoke    is    lifting:    Blessed 

Mother,  save  my  brain! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from 

heaps  of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding:  now  they 

fall,  and  strive  to  rise; 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they  die 

before  our  eyes! 

"  O  my  heart's  love!  O  my  dear  one!  lay  thy  poor 

head  on  my  knee: 
Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee?     Canst 

thou  hear  me?  canst  thou  see? 
O  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle!     O  my  Bernal, 

look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee!     Mercy!  mercy! 

all  is  o'er!" 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena;  lay  thy  dear  one 

down  to  rest; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross  upon 

his  breast; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  the  funeral 

masses  said; 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy 

aid. 


276  THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA    VISTA. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young, 
a  soldier  lay, 

Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding 
slow  his  life  away; 

But,  as  tenderly  before  him,  the  lorn  Ximena  knelt, 

She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol- 
belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned 

away  her  head; 
With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back  upon 

her  dead; 
But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his 

struggling  breath  of  pain, 
And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching 

lips  again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her  hand 
and  faintly  smiled: 

Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's?  did  she  watch 
beside  her  child? 

All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's 
heart  supplied; 

With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "  Mother!  "  mur- 
mured he,  and  died! 

Sink,  O  Night,  among  thy  mountains!  let  the  cool, 

gray  shadows  fall; 
Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy  curtain 

over  all ! 


WASHINGTON  AND    THE  NATION.          2?7 

Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart 

the  battle  rolled, 
In  the  sheath  the  saber  rested,  and  the  cannon's 

lips  grew  cold. 

Not  wholly  lost,  O  Father!  is  this  evil  world  of 

ours; 
Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes,  spring  afresh 

the  Eden  flowers; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and  Pity 

send  their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in 

our  air! 


WASHINGTON   AND   THE    NATION. 

By  WILLIAM  McKiNLEY,  Statesman,  ex-Governor  of  Ohio, 
President  of  the  United  States.  B.  1853,  Niles,  O. 

An  address  delivered  at  the  dedication  of  the  Washing- 
ton Monument  at  Philadelphia,  May  15,  1897. 

EVERY  monument  to  Washington  is  a  tribute  to 
patriotism.  Every  shaft  and  statue  to  his  "memory 
helps  to  inculcate  love  of  country,  encourage 
loyalty,  and  establish  a  better  citizenship.  God 
bless  every  undertaking  which  revives  patriotism 
and  rebukes  the  indifferent  and  lawless! 

A  critical  study  of  Washington's  career  only  en- 
hances our  estimation  of  his  vast  and  varied  abili- 
ties. As  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Colonial 
armies,  from  the  beginning  of  the  war  to  the  proc- 
lamation of  peace;  as  President  of  the  Convention 


278       WASHINGTON  AND  THE  NATION. 

which  framed  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States, 
and  as  the  first  President  of  the  United  States  under 
that  Constitution,  Washington  has  a  distinction 
differing  from  that  of  all  other  illustrious  Ameri- 
cans. No  other  name,  bears  or  can  bear  such  a 
relation  to  the  Government.  Not  only  by  his  mili- 
tary genius — his  patience,  his  sagacity,  his  courage, 
and  his  skill — was  our  National  independence  won, 
but  he  helped  in  the  largest  measure  to  draft  the 
chart  by  which  the  Nation  was  guided,  and  he  was 
the  first  chosen  of  the  people  to  put  in  motion  the 
new  Government. 

His  was  not  the  boldness  of  martial  display  or 
the  charm  of  captivating  oratory,  but  his  calm  and 
steady  judgment  won  men's  support  and  com- 
manded their  confidence  by  appealing  to  their  best 
and  noblest  aspirations.  And,  withal,  Washington 
was  ever  so  modest  that  at  no  time  in  his  career  did 
his  personality  seem  in  the  least  intrusive.  He  was 
above  the  temptation  of  power.  He  spurned  the 
suggested  crown.  He  would  have  no  honor  which 
the  people  did  not  bestow. 

An  interesting  fact — and  one  which  I  love  to  re- 
call— is  that  the  only  time  Washington  formally  ad- 
dressed the  Constitutional  Convention  during  all 
its  sessions  over  which  he  presided  in  this  city,  he 
appealed  for  a  larger  representation  of  the  people 
in  the  National  House  of  Representatives,  and  his 
appeal  was  instantly  heeded.  Thus  he  was  ever 
keenly  watchful  of  the  rights  of  the  people,  in 
whose  hands  was  the  destiny  of  our  Government 


WASHINGTON  AND    THE  NATION.  279 

then  and  now.  Masterful  as  were  his  military 
campaigns,  his  civil  administration  commands 
equal  admiration.  His  foresight  was  marvelous; 
his  conception  of  the  philosophy  of  government, 
his  insistence  upon  the  necessity  of  education, 
morality,  and  enlightened  citizenship  to  the  prog- 
ress and  permanence  of  the  republic  cannot  be 
contemplated  even  at  this  period  without  filling  us 
with  astonishment  at  the  breadth  of  his  comprehen- 
sion and  the  sweep  of  his  vision. 

His  was  no  narrow  view  of  government.  The 
immediate  present  was  not  his  sole  concern,  but 
our  future  good  his  constant  theme  of  study.  He 
blazed  the  path  of  liberty.  He  laid  the  foundation 
upon  which  we  have  grown  from  weak  and  scat- 
tered colonial  governments  to  a  -united  republic, 
whose  domains  and  power,  as  well  as  whose  liberty 
and  freedom,  have  become  the  admiration  of  the 
world.  Distance  and  time  have  not  detracted  from 
the  fame  and  force  of  his  achievements,  or  dimin- 
ished the  grandeur  of  his  life  and  work.  Great 
deeds  do  not  stop  in  their  growth,  and  those  of 
Washington  will  expand  in  influence  in  all  the  cen- 
turies to  follow. 

The  bequest  Washington  has  made  to  civiliza- 
tion is  rich  beyond  computation.  The  obligations 
under  which  he  has  placed  mankind  are  sacred  and 
commanding.  The  responsibility  he  has  left  for 
the  American  people  to  preserve  and  perfect  what 
he  accomplished  is  exacting  and  solemn. 

Let  us  rejoice  in  every  new  evidence  that  the 


280  DECLARATION  OF  RIGHTS. 

people  realize  what  they  enjoy  and  cherish  with 
affection  the  illustrious  heroes  of  Revolutionary 
story  whose  valor  and  sacrifices  made  us  a  nation. 
They  live  in  us,  and  their  memory  will  help  us  keep 
the  covenant  entered  into  for  the  maintenance  of 
the  freest  government  of  earth.. 

The  Nation  and  the  name  of  Washington  are  in- 
separable. One  is  linked  indissolubly  with  the 
other.  Both  are  glorious,  both  triumphant.  Wash- 
ington lives  and  will  live  because  what  he  did  was 
for  the  exaltation  of  man,  the  enthronement  of  con- 
science, and  the  establishment  of  a  government 
which  recognizes  all  the  governed.  And  so,  too, 
will  the  Nation  live  victorious  over  all  obstacles, 
adhering  to  the  immortal  principles  which  Wash- 
ington taught  and  Lincoln  sustained. 


DECLARATION   OF   RIGHTS. 

By  HENRY  GRATTAN,  Statesman,  Orator.  B.  1746,  Ire- 
land;  d.  1820,  London. 

From  a  speech  in  the  Irish  House  of  Commons,  April  19, 
1780. 

Do  not  then  tolerate  a  power — the  power  of  the 
British  Parliament  over  this  land — which  has  no 
foundation  in  utility  or  necessity,  or  empire,  or  the 
laws  of  England,  or  the  laws  of  Ireland,  or  the  laws 
of  nature,  or  the  laws  of  God — do  not  suffer  it 
to  have  a  duration  in  your  mind. 

Do  not  tolerate  that  power  which  has  blasted 
you  for  a  century ;  that  power  which  shattered  your 


DECLARATION  OF  RIGHTS.  281 

looms,  banished  your  manufactures,  dishonored 
your  peerage,  and  stopped  the  growth  of  your 
people;  do  not,  I  say,  be  bribed  by  an  export  of 
woolen  or  an  import  of  sugar,  and  permit  that 
power  which  has  thus  withered  the  land  to  remain 
in  your  country  and  have  existence  in  your  pusil- 
lanimity. 

Do  not  suffer  the  arrogance  of  England  to 
imagine  a  surviving  hope  in  the  fears  of  Ireland; 
do  not  send  the  people  to  their  own  resolves  for 
liberty,  passing  by  the  tribunals  of  justice  and  the 
high  court  of  Parliament;  neither  imagine  that,  by 
any  formation  of  apology,  you  can  palliate  such  a 
commission  to  your  hearts,  still  less  to  your  chil- 
dren, who  will  sting  you  with  their  curses  in  your 
grave  for  having  interposed  between  them  and  their 
Maker,  robbing  them  of  an  immense  occasion,  and 
losing  an  opportunity  which  you  did  not  create, 
and  can  never  restore. 

Hereafter,  when  these  things  shall  be  history, — 
your  age  of  thraldom  and  poverty,  your  sudden 
resurrection,  commercial  redress,  and  miraculous 
armament, — shall  the  historian  stop  at  liberty,  and 
observe  that  here  the  principal  men  among  us 
fell  into  mimic  trances  of  gratitude;  they  were 
awed  by  a  weak  ministry,  and  bribed  by  an  empty 
treasury;  and  when  liberty  was  within  their  grasp, 
.  and  the  temple  opened  her  folding  doors,  and  the 
arms  of  the  people  clanged,  and  the  zeal  of  the 
nation  urged  and  encouraged  them  on,  that  they 
fell  down,  and  were  prostituted  at  the  threshold? 


282  DECI.AKA  rtON  Of  RIGHTS. 

I  might,  as  a  constituent,  come  to  your  bar  and 
demand  my  liberty.  I  do  call  upon  you,  by  the 
laws  of  the  land  and  their  violation ;  by  the  instruc- 
tion of  eighteen  counties;  by  the  arms,  inspiration, 
and  providence  of  the  present  moment,  tell  us  the 
rule  by  which  we  shall  go — assert  the  law  of  Ire- 
land— declare  the  liberty  of  the  land. 

I  will  not  be  answered  by  a  public  lie,  in  the 
shape  of  an  amendment;  neither,  speaking  for  the 
subjects'  freedom,  am  I  to  hear  of  faction.  I  wish 
for  nothing  but  to  breathe,  in  this  our  island,  in 
common  with  my  fellow-subjects,  the  air  of  liberty. 
I  have  no  ambition,  unless  it  be  the  ambition  to 
break  your  chain  and  contemplate  your  glory.  I 
never  will  be  satisfied  so  long  as  the  meanest  cot- 
tager in  Ireland  has  a  link  of  the  British  chain 
clanking  to  his  rags;  he  may  be  naked,  he  shall 
not  be  in  iron;  and  I  do  see  the  time  is  at  hand, 
the  spirit  is  gone  forth,  the  declaration  is  planted; 
and  though  great  men  should  apostatize,  yet  the 
cause  will  live;  and  though  the  public  speaker 
should  die,  yet  the  immortal  fire  shall  outlast  the 
organ  which  conveyed  it;  and  the  breath  of  liberty, 
like  the  word  of  the  holy  man,  will  not  die  with  the 
prophet,  but  survive  him. 


APRIL'S  FOOLS.  283 

APRIL'S  FOOLS. 

By  MRS.  A.  GIDDINGS  PARK.     From  Good  Housekeeping. 

THE  first  morn  of  April,  so  balmy  and  fair, 

It  seemed  like  a  day  in  bright,  sunny  May! 
The  sky  was  resplendent,  with  never  a  cloud; 

The  bluebirds  were  gay,  just  over  the  way, — 
Chatting  of  housekeeping,  sites  for  a  home, 

Of  building,  repairs,  and  domestic  affairs, — 
Just  from  their  migrating,  warm  region  come, 

Sweet   messengers   telling   that    springtime   ap- 
pears. , 

The  robin  was  cheerily  hailing  his  mate, — 

"  What  fine  weather,  my  dear,  I'm  so  glad  we 

are  here!  " 

And  he  fluttered  his  wings,  and  sang  louder  still, 
As  from  a  tree  near,  her  response  echoed  clear, 
While    she    tilted    and    swung    on    the    topmost 

bough, — 
"I  told  you   so,   Rob!  don't  you  know?  don't 

you  know? 

But  you  were  so  fearful  of  winds  and  the  cold, — 
We  ought  to  have  come  more  than  two  weeks 
ago!" 

"  Just  the  time  for  a  stroll  in  the  sunshine,"  we  said, 
"  To   gather   wild   flowers   through    the    bright 
morning  hours." 


284  APRILS  FOOLS. 

And  we  thought  of  the  haunts  where  they  plenti- 
ful grew. 
("  Sure  not  a  cloud  lowers ;  there'll  be  no  spring 

showers !  ") 
There  were  trailing  arbutus  and  violets  blue, 

Cowslips,  anemones,  maple  blooms  gay; 
Bright  wintergreen  berries,  like  coral  so  red, 
And  dear  pussy  willows  that  grew  by  the  way. 

So  we  wandered  afar,  over  hill  and  through  dale, 

Gave  a  lingering  look  at  the  swift-rushing  brook, 
Then  down  through  the  woodland,  where  sweet 
resined  buds 

Were  bursting;  we  took,  from  many  a  nook, 
Mosses,  and  lichens,  and  rarest  wild  flowers. 

High  on  a  dead  tree,  lo!  what  should  we  see, 
But  a  wise,  old  crow,  who  called  to  us, — "  Caw! 

There's  a  maiden  I  know  that's  coquettish  and 
free; 

"  And  she's  sly,  and  she's  coy,  and  she's  fickle  and 

bold, 

With  a  tear  and  a  smile  she  will  tempt  and  be- 
guile, 
Then  laugh  at  the  dupes  who  follow  her  train. 

She  has  many  a  wile;  beware,  then,  the  while, — 
(Forewarned  is  forearmed,  is  an  old  adage,  wise.) 
April's  her  name,  and  she's  just  now  passed  by. 
Caw!     Caution,  I  say;  beware  while  you  may!  " 
But  onward  we   sauntered,   hope   buoyant  and 
high. 


APRIL'S  FOOLS.  285 

Soon  a  shadow  fell  over  the  earth  like  a  pall, 

And  the  breezes  blew  cold,  while  up  from  the 

wold 
Came  a  rustle  and  sighing,  like  spirits  astray; 

The  sky  was  enrolled  with  clouds,  fold  on  fold, 
And  whirring  snow-flakes,  that  blinded  the  sight, 

Filled  the  fast-chilling  air,  sifting  down  every- 
where, 
'Till  a  new,  trackless  world  lay  drifting  in  white, 

Where  late  was  the  old,  with  spring  tints  so  rare. 

As  homeward  we  wended  our  wearisome  way, 
From   his    high   perch,   the    crow   called    down 

through  the  snow, — 
"  Caw !  caw !     You  are  caught !     Didn't  I  tell  you 

so?" 
From  robins  and  bluebirds '  came  sad  notes  of 

woe, 
As  they  flew  here  and  there  for  retreat  from  the 

storm. 

We,  none  to  condole!     Most  derisively  cool, 
A  sound  of  deep  mirth  seemed  to  fall  on  our  ear, 
Like  the  voice  of  a  maid, — "  Ha,  ha,  ha!    April 
fool!  " 


286      POSITIVELY  THE  LAST  PERFORMANCE. 


POSITIVELY  THE   LAST   PERFORM- 
ANCE. 

As  recited  by  MR.  EDWIN  B.  HAY  of  Washington,  D.  C. 

THEY  aint  performin'  to-day,  sir,  and  the  boys  are 

all  on  the  gape 
At  s>eein'  the  mice  in  mournin',  and  the  cats  in 

chokers  o'  crape; 
[Pause — then   subdued.]     For    my    leading   come- 

jian's  left  me,  sir — to  name  him  makes  me 

sob, 
Him  as  was  joyous  to  look  upon — [explanatory, 

perceiving    you     are     not     understood] — the 

brindle  kinairy — [more  impatiently] — Bob! 
What,  ye  don't  remember?     [Surprise.]     Not  him 

as  wore  the  tunic  o'  Turkey  red? 
What  rode  in  a  gilded   kerridge   with   a   'at  an' 

plumes  on  his  'ed? 
And,  as  soon  as  we'd  taken  a  tanner,  'ud  fire  a 

saloot  from  the  gun? 
There  was  talent  inside  o'  that  bird,  there  was,  or  I 

never  see  it  in  one!     [Excitedly.] 
[Philosophic    bitterness.]      Well,    he's    forgot — but 

I've  often  thought  as  a  fish  keeps  longer 

than  Fame! 
[Sudden  comprehension  and  restored  cordiality.]   Oh! 

ye  didn't  know  him  as   Bob? — I   see — no, 

that  were  his  private  name. 


POSITIVELY  THE  LAST  PERFORMANCE.     287 

I  used  to  announce  him  in  public  on  a  more  long- 

windeder  scale — 

I  christened  him   "  Gineral   Moultky "    [apologeti- 
cally]   which    he    'ad    rather    gone    at    the 

tail; 
And  a  bird  more  popular  never  performed  on  a 

peripathetic  stage. 
He  was  allers  sure  of  a  round  of  applause  as  soon 

as  he  quitted  the  cage! 
For  he  thoroughly  hentered  into  the  part  he  was 

down  for  to  play, 
And    he   never   got    "  fluffy "    nor    "  queered   the 

pitch, "- — leastwise,  till  the  hother  day. 
I  thought  he'd  bin  hoverexertin'  hisself,  and  'ud 

better  be  out  of  the  bill, 
But  it  wasn't  till  yesterday  hevenin'  I'd  any  ideer 

he  was  ill! 
Then  I  see  he  was  rough  on  the  top  of  his  'ed,  and 

his  tongue  looked  dry  at  the  tip, 
And  it  dawned  on  me  like  a  thunderbolt — "  Great 

Evings!"  I  groaned, — "The  Pip!"  [Pause 

here,  to  emphasise  the  tremendous  gravity  of 

this  discovery.] 
Well,  I  'ad  bin  trainin'  a  siskin  to  hunderstudy  the 

part  [more  ordinary  tone  for  this], 
And  I  guess  he  done  his  best,  but  he  'adn't  no  no- 
tion o'  Hart! 
So  I  left  the  pitch  as  soon  as  I  could  and  (meanin' 

to  make  more  'aste) 
I  cut  across  one  o'  them  buildin'  sites  as  was  left  a- 

runnin'  to  waste. 


288     POSITIVELY  THE  LAST  PERFORMANCE. 

There  was  yawning  pits  by  the  flinty  road,  as  ren- 
dered the  prospeck  dull, 
And  'ere  and  there  a  winderless  'ouse,  with  the 

look  of  a  grinning  skull. 

[  Try  to  paint  this  scene  visibly  for  the  audience;  back- 
ground is  essential  for  what  is  to  come.} 
A  storm  had  bin  'anging  about  all  day  (and  it 

broke,  you'll  remember,  at  last!) 
So  I  'urried  on,  it  was  gettin'  late — and  the  Gineral 

a-sinking  fast! 
[You  are  now  approaching  the  harrowing  part,  and 

should  hold  yourself  in  reserve  for  the  present.} 
On  a  sudding  I  'card  'im  give  a  kind  of  a  feeble 

flap, 
And  I  stops,  and  sez  in  a  'opeful  way,  "Why,  you're 

up  in  yer  stirrups,  hold  chap." 
[Metaphor  applied  to  the  bird,  but  characteristic  in  the 

speaker.} 
[Sink  your  voice.}     Then   I    see   by   the   look   of 

his  sorrowful  eye  he  was  thinkin':  "Afore 

I  go, 
I'd  like  to  see  one  performance — for  the  last — of 

the  dear  old  Show!  " 
[Note,  and  make  your  audience  feel,  the  touch  of 

Nature  here.} 
And  I  sez,  with  a  ketch  in  my  voice,  "  You  shall !  " 

and  I  shipped  the  sheet  off  the  board. 
I  stuck  up  the  pair  o'  trestles,  and  fastened  the 

tight-rope  cord. 
Then  I  propped  the  Gineral  up  in  a  place  from 

which  he  could  see  the  'ole, 


POSITIVELY  THE  LAST  PERFORMANCE.      289 

And   I   set  the  tabbies  a-sparring,  and  the  mice 

a-climbing  the  pole. 
[Build  up   the  whole   scene  gradually;   the   dreary 

neighborhood,  the  total  absence  of  bystanders, 

the   lurid,    threatening   sky,    and   the   humble 

entertainment  proceeding  in  the  foreground.] 
I  put  my  company  through  their  tricks — and  they 

made  my  hold  eyes  dim, 
For  they  never  performed  for  an  orjence  like  they 

did  last  night  for  him! 
Them  tabbies  sparred  with  a  science  you'd  'ardly 

expect  from  sich. 
And  the  mouse  (what  usually  boggles)  fetched  flags 

with  never  no  'itch! 
Ay,  we  worked  the  show  in  that  lonely  place  to  the 

sound  o'  the  mutterin'  storm 
Right  through  till  we  come  to  the  finish — the  part 

he  used  to  perform. 
He  was  out  of  the  cage  in  a  minnit — egged  on  by 

professional  pride, 
He  pecked  that  incompetent  siskin  till  he  made 

him  stand  o'  one  side ! 
Well,  I  felt  like  'aving  a  good  cry  then — but  the 

time  'adn't  come  for  that. 
So  I  slipped  his  uniform  over  his  'ead,  and  tied  on 

his  little  cock-hat.     [With  great  tenderness.] 
And  he  set  in  his  tiny  kerridge,  and  was  drored 

along  by  the  mice, 
A-looking  that  'appy  and  pleased  with  hisself,  I 

got  'em  to  do  it  twice!     [Tone  of  affectionate 

retrospection.] 


290      POSITIVELY  THE  LAST  PERFORMANCE. 

The  very  tabbies  they  gazed  on  him  then  with  their 
heyes  dilatin'  in  haw, 

As  he  'obbled  along  to  the  cannon  with  a  match  in 
his  wasted  claw! 

I  never  'eared  that  cannon  afore  give  such  a  tre- 
menjous  pop — 

[Solemnly.]  And  a  peal  o'  thunder  responded,  as 
seemed  all  over  the  shop! 

For  a  second  Bob  stood  in  the  lightning,  so  noble, 
and  bold,  and  big — 

Then — a  stagger — a  flutter — a  broken  chirp — [you 
can  add  immensely  to  the  effect  here  by  a  little 
appropriate  action.  Pause  and  give  time  for 
a  solemn  hush  to  fall  upon  the  audience,  then, 
with  a  forced  calm,  as  if  you  were  doing  vio- 
lence to  your  own  feelings] — he  was  orf,  sir, — 
[a  slight  gulp] — he'd  'opped  the  twig! 

[Second  pause,  then  more  briskly,  but  still  with  strong 
emotion  to  the  close.] 

So  now  you've  the  hexplanation  of  the  crape  round 
the  tabbies'  necks, . 

And  kin  understand  why  we  close  to-day,  in  token 
of  our  respecks. 


THE   NEW  PATRIOTISM.  291 

THE  NEW  PATRIOTISM. 

By  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER,  Poet,  Editor  of  The  Cen- 
tury Magazine.  B.  1844,  New  Jersey ;  lives  in  New 
York. 

Delivered  in  New  York  City,  February  27,  1897,  at  the 
reunion  of  Dickinson  College  alumni. 

WHAT  seems  to  be  the  most  needed  patriotism  in 
our  day  and  country?  In  the  first  place,  we  ought 
as  a  nation  to  cultivate  peace  with  all  other  na- 
tions. This  was  good  patriotism  in  the  days  of 
George  Washington;  it  ought  to  be  good  patriot- 
ism in  our  day.  The  new  patriotism,  therefore, 
aims  at  a  condition  of  peace  with  all  the  world;  it 
believes  that  Christianity  is  mocked  by  the  spec- 
tacle of  Christian  nations  in  arms  against  each 
other.  It  believes  that  if  America  is  ever  to  lift  the 
sword  against  a  foreign  foe,  it  must  not  only  be  in 
a  righteous  cause,  but  with  a  pure  heart;  that  he 
who  takes  up  his  sword  to  enforce  his  will  upon 
another  must  see  that  his  own  will  is  right  and  that 
his  own  hands  are  clean. 

But  the  new  patriotism  has  other  duties  than 
those  of  armed  conflict;  duties  less  splendid,  but 
no  less  onerous,  and  requiring  no  less  bravery;  re- 
quiring bravery  of  a  rarer  order  than  that  which 
shone  upon  a  hundred  battlefields  of  our  civil  war. 
The  roll  of  cowards  among  those  who  wore  either 
the  blue  or  gray  is  insignificant  indeed.  And  there 
was  scarce  a  single  act  of  treachery  among  the 
combatants  on  either  side.  Yes,  most  men  will 


292  7 'HE  FISHERMAN'S  HUT. 

march  for  country  and  honor's  sake  straight  into 
the  jaws  of  death. 

But  how  many  men  in  our  day,  when  put  to  the 
test  of  civic  courage,  have  we  beheld  turn  cowards 
and  recreants!  How  many  political  careers  have 
we  seen  blighted  by  conscienceless  compromise  or 
base  surrender! 

We  have  also  seen  the  tremendous  power  of  wise 
and  disinterested  effort  in  the  domain  of  public 
affairs.  We  have  seen  brave  men  do  notable  deeds 
for  the  betterment  of  our  country  and  our  commu- 
nities. But  there  must  be  more  such  men,  or  the 
evil  forces  will,  for  a  while,  at  least,  triumph  in  a 
republic,  whose  fortunate  destiny  must  not  be 
weakly  taken  for  granted  by  those  who  passionately 
loye  their  country.  We  must  have  more  leaders, 
and  we  must  have  more  followers  of  the  right. 
Men  who  will  resist  civic  temptation,  who  will  re- 
fuse to  take  the  easy  path  of  compliance,  and  who 
will  fight  for  honesty  and  purity  in  public  affairs. 


THE    FISHERMAN'S    HUT. 

By  CHARLES  TIMOTHY  BROOKS,  Clergyman,  Author. 
1813,  Massachusetts  ;  d.  1883,  Rhode  Island. 
From  "  Stolle,"  copyright  by  Roberts  Brothers. 

"  Go,  boy,  and  light  the  torch !  the  night 

Is  damp  and  dark  and  drear: 
Thy  father  sails  from  foreign  lands, 

His  ship  must  soon  be  near." 


THE   F1SHE UMAX'S  HUT.  293 

The  boy  sets  fire  to  the  torch, 

And  hastens  to  the  strand; 
The  storm-wind  howls,  the  rain  pours  down, 

The  torch  dies  in  his  hand. 

The  boy  flies  homeward:  "  Mother  dear, 

Send  me  not  out  again! 
The  storm  did  howl,  and  the  wind  did  blow, 

And  the  torch  went  out  in  the  rain." 

"  O  sailor's  blood!     O  sailor's  blood! 

No  sailor's  blood  art  thou! 
\Yhat  cares  a  brisk  young  sailor's  blood 

How  wild  the  tempests  blow !  " 

The  boy  sets  fire  to  the  torch, 

He  hastens  to  the  shore; 
The  tempest  howls,  the  rain  pours  down, 

The  torch  goes  out  once  more. 

The  boy  flies  home :  "  O  mother  dear, 

Send  me  not  to  the  strand! 
There's  a  white  woman  sitting  there, 

And  beckoning  with  her  hand !  " 

"  O  sailor's  blood!     O  sailor's  blood! 

No  sailor's  blood  art  thou! 
Naught  does  the  brave  warm  sailor's  blood 

For  mermaid  care,  I  trow!  " 

The  boy  sets  fire  to  the  torch, 

And  hastens  to  the  shore; 
The  tempest  howls,  the  rain  pours  down, 

The  torch  dies  yet  once  more. 


294  THE  FISHERMAN'S  MUT. 

The  boy  flies  home:  "  O  mother,  go 

Thyself  now  to  the  shore ! 
I  hear  a  voice  like  father's  rise 

Through  all  the  ocean's  roar." 

The  mother  quickly  lifts  the  torch, 

And  sets  the  hut  on  fire; 
The  tempest  howls,  the  lurid  flame 

Shines  brighter,  broader,  higher. 

"What  hast  thou  done?    O  mother,  woe! 

Hear'st  thou  the  tempest's  roar! 
How  cold  the  night,  how  dark  and. wild, — 

And  we've  a  home  no  more." 

"  O  sailor's  blood !     O  sailor's  blood ! 

No  sailor's  blood  art  thou ! 
Boy,  when  no  other  torch  will  burn, 

The  hut  shines  well,  I  trow." 

The  father  safely  steers  his  ship 

Right  to  the  blazing  strand, 
Weathers  the  ledges  all,  and  soon 

In  safety  reaches  land. 


TWO    VOICES.  295 


TWO  VOICES. 

By  DAVID  JOSIAH  BREWER,  Jurist.  B.  1837,  Smyrna,  Asia 
Minor;  resides  in  Washington,  D.  C.,  and  is  an  Associate 
Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States. 

An  extract  from  an  oration  delivered  at  West  Point,  N. 
Y.,  May  31,  1897,  at  the  unveiling  of  the  monument  erected 
in  honor  of  the  officers  and  men  of  the  regular  army  who 
fell  during  the  Civil  War. 

WE  stand  today  in  the  presence  of  a  stately 
column,  erected  by  the  soldiers  and  officers  of  the 
regular  army  of  the  United  States,  to  commem- 
orate the  heroism  and  sacrifice  of  those  of  their 
number  who  during  the  Civil  War  gave  their  lives 
for  their  country  and  in  order  that  "  liberty  and 
union  might  remain  one  and  inseparable,  now  and 
forever."  It  speaks  of  heroic  achievements.  It  is 
eloquent  with  the  suffering  and  self-denial  and  sac- 
rifice which  the  great  war  developed  and  ennobled. 
But  beyond  all  that  it  bears  two  voices,  which  I 
fain  would  catch  in  the  words  of  my  talk  and  speak 
to  every  citizen  of  the  United  States. 

First,  it  voices  the  immeasurable  value  of  law 
and  peace.  It  says  to  us  that  they  whose  names 
are  written  on  its  face  gave  up  their  lives  not  merely 
.for  military  glory,  but  also  that  war  should  cease 
and  peace  with  all  its  blessings  prevail. 

The  greatest  meed  of  praise  which  can  be  be- 
. stowed  upon  the  army  of  the  United  States  is  that 
it  makes  certain  to  every  citizen  the  blessings  of 
peace  and  order  and  law.  Doubtless,  as  you  look 
over  the  bright  fields  of  the  future,  you  see  dazzling 


296  TWO    VOICES. 

before  you  visions  of  military  glory.  ''  The  pride, 
pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war"  are  there, 
and  the  eagle  and  the  stars  wait  to  rest  on  your 
shoulders,  but  when  the  evening  of  life  shall  come 
you  will  realize  that  the  highest  praise  which  can  be 
awarded  to  you  is  that  in  your  military  lives  you 
have  been  the  defenders  of  law  and  the  guardians 
of  peace;  that  you  have  stood  back  of  legislator 
and  judge  and  President,  and  been  the  unfailing 
guarantor  that  in  peace  they  shall  act  and  that  by 
every  citizen  their  acts  shall  be  respected  and 
obeyed.  And  to-day  this  column  lifts  its  stately 
height  in  the  presence  of  the  American  people, 
proclaiming  to  all,  in  a  voice  which  fills  the  land 
and  will  fill  the  centuries,  that  these  men  died  that 
law  might  live  and  peace  prevail. 

The  other  voice  which  comes  from  this  silently 
eloquent  witness  is  that  these  men  died  in  order 
that  there  might  be  preserved  in  our  borders  equal 
opportuni  ies  for  all.  From  an  humble  farmhouse 
in  Ohio,  through  the  gateways  of  this  school  passed 
a  modest,  resolute  young  man,  to  become  the  great 
commander.  The  present  general  of  the  army 
commenced  life  as  a  dry-goods  clerk,  and  a  private 
soldier  is  now  President  of  the  United  States.  The 
barefoot  boy  may  thank  God  and  take  courage,  for 
beneath  the  Stars  and  Stripes  the  future  is  his! 
.This  doctrine  of  equal  rights  and  equal  opportuni- 
ties, which  has  always  been  the  theory  of  our  politi- 
cal and  social  institutions,  is,  notwithstanding  some 
idle  talk,  still,  as  ever,  the  great  fact  of  our  life. 


"  ONE,    TWO,   THREE!"  297 

The  great  accumulations  of  money  are  not  in 
the  hands  of  those  who  inherited,  but  of  those  who 
themselves  accumulated  it,  and  as  you  run  over  the 
list  of  the  leaders  in  our  thought  to-day  you  will 
find  that  no  rank  or  class  or  place  monopolized 
their  beginnings.  Their  power  and  influence  are 
something  which  they  themselves  have  won  and 
not  something  which  they  inherited.  The  hum- 
blest child  may  look  upon  the  White  House  with 
expectation.  The  poorest  and  most  friendless 
student  may  begin  with  faith  and  hope  his  struggle 
for  a  seat  on  the  highest  bench  of  the  nation.  A 
place  in  the  halls  of  Congress  is  not  a  thing  of  pur- 
chase or  inheritance,  and  the  few  exceptions  which 
occur  only  attest  the  fact  as  well  as  the  strength  and 
vigor  of  the  rule.  This  is  to-day,  and  God  grant 
that  it  may  ever  remain,  a  land  of  equal  rights  and 
equal  opportunities. 


"  ONE,  TWO,   THREE  !  " 

By  HENRY  CUYLER  BUNNER.     B.  1855,  New  York  ;  d.  1896, 
New  Jersey. 

From  "  Rowen." 

IT  was  an  old,  old  lady, 

And  a  boy  that  was  half-past  three ; 
And  the  way  that  they  played  together 

Was  beautiful  to  see. 

She  couldn't  go  running  and  jumping, 
And  the  boy,  no  more  could  he; 


8  "ONE,   TWO,   THREE!" 

For  he  was  a  thin  little  fellow, 
With  a  thin  little  twisted  knee. 

They  sat  in  the  yellow  sunlight, 

Out  uniler  the  maple-tree; 
And  the  game  that  they  play'd  I'll  tell  you, 

Just  as  it  was  told  to  me. 

It  was  Hide-and-Go-Seek  they  were  playing, 
Though  you'd  never  have  known  it  to  be — 

With  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 
And  a  boy  with  a  twisted  knee. 

The  boy  would  bend  his  face  down 
On  his  one  little  sound  right  knee, 

And  he'd  guess  where  she  was  hiding, 
In  guesses  One,  Two,  Three! 

"  You  are  in  the  china-closet !  " 

He  would  cry,  and  laugh  with  glee — 

It  wasn't  the  china-closet; 

But  he  still  had  Two  and  Three. 

"  You  are  up  in  papa's  big  bedroom, 
In  the  chest  with  the  queer  old  key!  " 

And  she  said:  "  You  are  warm  and  warmer; 
But  you're  not  quite  right,"  said  she. 

"  It  can't  be  the  little  cupboard 

Where  mamma's  things  used  to  be — 

So  it  must  be  the  clothes-press,  Gran'ma!  " 
And  he  found  her  with  his  Three. 


THE  FAITH  OF    WASHINGTON.  299 

Then  she  covered  her  face  with  her  fingers, 
That  were  wrinkled  and  white  and  wee, 

And  she  guessed  where  the  boy  was  hiding, 
With  a  One  and  a  Two  and  a  Three. 

And  they  never  had  stirred  from  their  places, 

Right  under  the  maple-tree — 
This  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 

And  the  boy  with  the  lame  little  knee — 
This  dear,  dear,  dear  old  lady, 

And  the  boy  who  was  half-past  three. 


THE   FAITH   OF   WASHINGTON. 

By  FREDERIC  R.  COUDERT,  Jurist ;  resides  in  New  York. 
Delivered  February  22,  1897,  in  the  Auditorium,  Chicago, 
before  the  Union  League  Club. 

WE  are  gathered  here  to-day  in  honor  of  the 
founder  of  our  nation,  or,  as  we  prefer  in  filial 
reverence  to  call  him,  the  father  of  our  country. 
Our  jealous  love  for  him  will  allow  no  other  statue 
a  place  on  the  same  pedestal;  none  other  shall 
stand  as  a  rival  in  his  claim  to  our  devotion.  For 
his  light  shone  in  the  dark  days  as  the  only  star 
that  meant  hope;  his  steadfastness  kept  the  totter- 
ing young  nation  from  despair;  his  genius  and 
.serenity,  his  faith  and  his  courage,  inspired  and 
strengthened  those  who  were  fighting  the  great 
fight.  But  for  him  and  his  inspiration,  who  will 
venture  to  say  that  the  freemen  of  to-day  would 


300  THE  FAITH  OF   WASHINGTON. 

not  have  been  the  defeated  rebels  of  the  past?  Who 
will  study  the  fearful  odds  and  dispute  his  claim  to 
our  gratitude  so  long  as  we  remain  one  people? 
Overwhelming  odds  tested  his  genius,  treason 
wrung  his  heart,  jealousies  and  rivalries  baffled  his 
plans,  but  the  serenity  of  his  soul  was  undisturbed. 
As  though  a  ray  of  divine  inspiration  had 
touched  his  spirit,  he  looked  beyond  the  trials,  per- 
plexities, and  cares  of  each  day,  and  saw  the  visions 
which  others  were  blind  to  enjoy.  He  could  re- 
main firm  without  the  encouragement  of  victory; 
he  could  accept  defeat  without  despondency;  he 
made  stepping  stones  'of  disaster,  and  amazed  the 
world  by  his  fortitude.  Benedict  Arnold  might 
wound  his  heart,  but  even  that  cruel  wound  could 
not  open  the  way  to  despair.  His  half-clad  and 
half-fed  troops  might  leave  the  track  of  bloody  feet 
in  the  snows  of  New  Jersey,  but  the  radiant  vision 
never  melted  from  his  sight.  His  powerful  ene- 
mies might  send  veteran  troops  in  huge  bodies  to 
crush  the  straggling  rebels,  but  his  faith  never  fal- 
tered. The  day  would  surely  come  when  the 
dreams  would  become  reality,  and  after  great  tribu- 
lations and  trial  and  suffering  a  new  child  would  be 
born  into  the  family  of  nations — a  child  destined  to 
become  a  giant  strong  enough  to  fear  no  enemy 
but  itself. 


DOWN  IN    THE   STRAWBERRY  BED.        301 

DOWN   IN   THE   STRAWBERRY   BED. 

By  CLINTON  SCOLLARD,  Educator.  B.  1860,  New  York. 
Professor  of  Rhetoric  at  Hamilton  College. 

From  "  A  Boy's  Book  of  Verse,"  copyright  by  Copeland 
&  Day,  Boston. 

JAYS  in  the  orchard  are  screaming,  and  hark, 
Down  in  the  pasture  the  blithe  meadow-lark 
Floods  all  the  air  with  melodious  notes! 
Robins  and  sparrows  are  straining  their  throats. 
"  Dorothy!  Dorothy!  " — out  of  the  hall 
Echoes  the  sound  of  the  musical  call; 
Song  birds  are  silent  a  moment,  then  sweet, 
"  Dorothy!  "  all  of  them  seem  to  repeat. 

Where  is  the  truant?     No  answer  is  heard, 
Save  the  clear  trill  of  each  jubilant  bird; 
Dawn-damask  roses  have  naught  to  unfold, 
Sweet  with  the  dew  and  the  morning's  bright  gold. 
"  Dorothy!  Dorothy!  " — still  no  reply, 
Xone  from  the  arbor  or  hedgerow  anigh; 
None  from  the  orchard  where  grasses  are  deep, 
"  Dorothy!  " — surely  she  must  be  asleep! 

Rover  has  seen  her;  his  eyes  never  fail; 
Watch  how  he  sabers  the  air  with  his  tail! 
Follow  him!  follow  him!     Where  has  he  gone? 
Out  toward  the  garden  and  over  the  lawn. 
"Dorothy!     Dorothy!" — plaintive  and  low, 
Up  from  the  paths  where  the  hollyhocks  grow, 
Comes  the  soft  voice  with  a  tremor  of  dread, 
"  Dorofy's  down  in  'c  stuazibczcy  bed!  " 


302  THE  BLUE  AND    THE   GRAY. 

Curls  in  a  tangle  and  frock  all  awry, 
Bonnet,  a  beam  from  the  gold  in  the  sky, 
Eyes  with  a  sparkle  of  mirth  brimming  o'er, 
Lap  filled  with  ruby  fruit  red  to  the  core. 
Dorothy!  Dorothy!  rogue  that  thou  art! 
Who  at  thee,  sweet  one,  to  scold  has  the  heart? 
Apron  and  fingers  and  cheeks  stained  with  red, 
Dorothy  down  in  the  strawberry  bed! 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY. 

By  FRANCES  ELIZABETH  WILLARD,  Reformer,  President 
of  the  Woman's  Christian  Temperance  Union.  B.  1839, 
N.  Y.  ;  lives  in  Evanston,  111. 

Extract  from  an  address  delivered  at  the  Prohibition 
Party  Convention,  May  30,  1888,  before  the  "  Army  of  the 
Blue  and  Gray"  as  represented  at  that  convention. 

HERE  side  by  side  sit  the  Blue  and  the  Gray. 
What  a  circle  we  have  here !  Sweep  the  compasses 
of  thought  through  its  circumference.  Prohibition, 
first  of  all,  the  fixed  point  whence  we  calculate  all 
others.  The  Blue  and  the  Gray,  the  workingmen, 
the  women.  Inclosed  and  shielded  by  this  circle 
is  the  home — that  goes  without  saying;  and  be- 
yond its  shining  curves  is  the  saloon  outmatched, 
outwitted,  and  outvoted,  which,  in  a  republic,  is 
best  of  all.  No  saloon  in  politics  or  law,  no  sec- 
tionalism in  law  or  politics,  no  sex  in  citizenship, 
but  liberty,  equality,  fraternity  in  politics  and  law, 
now  and  for  evermore. 

The  greatest  party  welcomes  here  the  home-folks 


THE  BLUE  AND    THE   GRAY.  303 

to  equal  opportunities  and  honors,  and  rallies  here 
a  remnant  of  the  noble  veterans  who  have  learned 
that  it  is  good  to  forgive,  best  to  forget;  attesting 
that  the  Blue  and  the  Gray  are  to  us  emblems  of 
nothing  less  than  the  blue  sky  that  bends  its  ten- 
der arch  above  us  all,  and  the  gray  ocean  that  en- 
folds one  country  and  one  flag. 

The  women  who  uniformed  their  sons  in  South- 
ern gray,  and  said,  like  the  Spartan  mother  of  old, 
"  Come  ye  as  conquerors  or  come  ye  no  more,"  are 
with  us  together  with  those  other  women  who 
belted  Northern  swords  upon  their  boys  in  blue, 
with  words  as  pitiful  and  as  brave.  The  women 
who  embroidered  Stars  and  Stripes  upon  the 
blessed  flag  that  symbolized  their  love  and  faith, 
have  only  gentle  words  for  those  who  decked  their 
"  bonny  flag  of  Stars  and  Bars  "  with  tenderness  as 
true  and  faith  as  fervent.  And  now  we  all  wear  our 
snowy  badge  of  peace  above  the  hearts  that  hate 
no  more,  while  we  clasp  hands  in  a  compact  never 
to  be  broken  and  solemnly  declare,  before  high 
Heaven,  our  equal  hatred  of  the  rum  power  and  our 
equal  loyalty  to  God  and  home  and  native  land. 

When  I  think  of  Lexington  and  Paul  Revere; 
when  I  think  of  Bunker  Hill  and  the  dark  redoubt 
where  Warren  died;  when  I  think  of  Washington, 
that  greatest  of  Southerners,  upon  his  knees  in 
prayer  at  Valley  Forge ;  when  I  think  of  Stonewall 
Jackson  praying  before  he  fought;  of  Robert  Lee's 
and  Sidney  Johnston's  stainless  shields;  when  I  re- 
member Sheridan's  ride,,  and  Sherman's  march  to 


304  THE   GREA  T  REMEMBRANCE, 

the  sea,  and  Grant  fighting  the  battle  out,  then  my 
heart  prophesies,  with  all  a  patriot's  gratitude, 
"  America  will  win  in  her  bloodless  war  against  the 
awful  tyranny  of  King  Gambrinus,*  and  proud  am 
I  to  have  a  part  in  it,  for,  thank  God,  I — I,  too,  am 
an  American." 


THE   GREAT   REMEMBRANCE. 

By  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER,  Poet,  Editor  of  The  Cen- 
tury Magazine.  B.  1844,  New  Jersey  ;  lives  in  New 
York. 

Read  at  the  annual  reunion  of  the  Society  of  the  Army 
of  the  Potomac,  Faneuil  Hall,  Boston,  June  27,  1893. 

From  "For  The  Country,"  copyright  by  The  Century 
Co. 

This  splendid  poem  is  abridged  only  for  want  of  space. 

...     So  long  ago 

A  part  we  were  of  all  that  glorious  show, — 
Stood,  side  by  side,  'neath  the  red  battle-sun, — 
So  long  ago  we  breathed  war's  thunderous  breath, 
Knew  the  white  fury  of  that  life-in-death, 
So  long  ago  that  troubled  joy,  it  seems 
The  valorous  pageant  might  resolve  to  splendid 

dreams. 
But  no!     Too  deep  'tis  burned  into  the  brain! 

So  long  ago  it  seems,  so  long  ago, 

And  yet  it  was  this  land,  and  not  another, 

*  King  Gambrinus,  a  mythical  Flemish  King,  was  the 
reputed  inventor  of  beer. 


THE   GREAT  REMEMBRANCE.  305 

Where  blazed  war's  flame  and  rolled  the  battle- 
cloud. 

In  all  this  land  there  was  no  home  where  brother, 
Father,  or  son  hurried  not  forth ;  where  bowed 
No  broken-hearted  woman  when  pale  Death 
Laid  his  cold  finger  on  the  loved  one's  breath. 

Like  to  a  drama  did  the  scene  unroll — 
Some  dark,  majestic  drama  of  the  soul, 
Wherein  all  strove  as  actors,  hour  by  hour, 
Yet  breathless  watched  the  whole  swift,  tragic  play. 

And  with   the   tragic   theme   the   world   resounds 

again. 

First,  in  the  awful  waiting  came  the  shock, 
The  shame  unbearable,  the  sacred  flag  assailed — 

Then  sweet  farewell!     O  bitter-sweet  farewell; 
O  brave  farewell!     Who  were  the  bravest  then, 
Or  they  who  went,  or  waited — women  or  men  ? 
They  who  the  cheers  heard,  or  the  funeral  knell? 
They  who  stepped  proudly  to  the  rattling  drum, 
Inflamed  by  war's  divine  delirium, 
Or  they  who  knew  no  mad  joy  of  the  fight, 
And  yet  breathed   on   through   waiting   day   and 
weeping  night? 

Farewell  and  forward!     Oh,  to  live  it  over, 
The  first  wild  heart-beat  of  heroic  hours! 
Forward,  like  mountain-torrents  after  showers! 
Forward  to  death,  as  to  his  bride  the  lover! 


3°6  THE   GREAT  REMEMBRANCE. 

Forward,  till  quick  recoils  the  impetuous  flood, 
And  ends  the  first  dread  scene  in  terror  and  in 

blood! 
Onward  once  more,  through   sun  and  shivering 

storm, — 

A  monstrous  length  with  wavering  bulk  enorm, — 
Wounded  or  striking,  bringing  blood  or  bleeding, 
Onward,  still  on,  the  agony  unheeding! 
Onward  with  failing  heart,  or  courage  high ! 
Onward  through  heat,  and  hunger,  and  dismay, 
Turning  the  starry  night  to  murderous  day! 
Onward,  with  hope  appalled,  once  more  to  strike, 

and  die! 

Echoes  of  deeds  immortal,  oh,  awake! 
Tremble  to  language,  into  music  break, 
Till  lyric  menu  ry  takes  the  old  emotion, 
And  leaps  from  heart  to  heart  the  ancient  thrill! 
Tell  of  great  deeds  that  yet  the  wide  earth  fill. 

But  chiefly  tell  of  that  one  hour  of  all 
When  threatening  war  rolled  highest  its  full  tide, 
Even  to  the  perilous  northern  mountain-side 
Where  Heaven  should  bid  our  good  cause  rise  or 

fall. 

Tell  of  that  hour,  for  never  in  all  the  world 
Was  braver  army  against  braver  hurled. 
To  both  the  victory,  all  unawares, 
Beyond  all  dreams  of  losing  or  of  winning; 
For  the  new  land  which  now  is  ours  and  theirs, 
Had  on  that  topmost  day  its  glorious  beginning. 


THE   GREAT  REMEMBRANCE.  307 

They  who  charged  up  that  drenched  and  desperate 

slope 

Were  heroes  all — and  looked  in  heroes'  eyes! 
Ah!  heroes  never  heroes  did  despise! 
That  day  had  Strife  its  bloodiest  bourn  and  scope; 
Above  the  shaken  hills  and  sulphurous  skies 
Peace  lifted  up  her  mournful  head  and  smiled  on 

Hope. 

So  long  ago  it  was,  so  long  ago, 
All,  all  have  passed;  the  terror  and  the  splendor 
Have  turned  like  yester-evening's  stormy  glow 
Into  a  sunset  memory  strange  and  tender. 
How  beautiful  it  seems,  what  lordly  sights, 
What   deeds    sublime,   what    wondrous    days   and 

nights, 

What  love  of  comrades,  ay,  what  quickened  breath, 
When  first  we  knew  that,  startled,  quailing,  still 
We  too,  even  we,  along  the  blazing  hill, 
We,  with  the  best,  could  face  and  conquer  death! 

Glorious  all  these,  but  these  all  less  than  naught 
To  the  one  passion  of  those  days  divine, 
Love    of    the    land    our    own    hearts'    blood    had 

bought — 

Our  country,  our  own  country,  yours  and  mine, 
Then  known,  then  sternly  loved,  first  in  our  lives. 
Ah!  loved  we  not  our  children,  sisters,  wives? 
But  our  own  country,  this  was  more  than  they, — 
Our  wives,  our  children,  this, — our  hope,  our  love 
For  all  most  dear,  but  more — the  dawning  day 


308  THE   ORE  A  T  REMEMBRANCE. 

Of  freedom  for  the  world,  the  hope  above 
All  hope  for  the  sad  race  of  man.     For  where, 
In  what  more  lovely  world,  'neath  skies  more  fair, 
If  freedom  here  should  fail,  could  it  find  soil  and 

air? 

In  this  one  thought,  one  passion, — whate'er  fate 
Still  may  befall, — one  moment  we  were  great! 
One  moment  in  life's  brief,  perplexed  hour 
We  climbed  the  height  of  being,  and  the  power 
That  falls  alone  on  those  who  love  their  kind 
A  moment  made  us  one  with  the  Eternal  Mind. 

One  moment,  ah!  not  so,  dear  Country!     Thou 
Art  still  our  passion ;  still  to  thee  we  bow 
In  love  supreme;  fairer  than  e'er  before 
Art  thou  to-day,  from  golden  shore  to  shore 
The  home  of  freedom.     Not  one  stain  doth  cling 
Now  to  thy  banner.     Argosies  of  war 
On  thy  imperial  rivers  bravely  fling 
Flags  of  the  nations,  but  no  message  bring 
Save  of  peace  only;  while,  behold,  from  far 
The  Old  World  comes  to  greet  thy  natal  star 
That  with  the  circling  century  returns, 
And  in  the  Western  heavens  with  fourfold  beauty 
burns. 

Land  that  we  love!     Thou  Future  of  the  World! 
Thou  refuge  of  the  noble  heart  oppressed! 
Oh,  never  be  thy  shining  image  hurled 
From  its  high  place  in  the  adoring  breast 
Of  him  who  worships  thee  with  jealous  love! 
Keep  thou  thy  starry  forehead  as  the  dove 


THE   QUEER'S    YEAR.  3°9 

All  white,  and  to  the  eternal  Dawn  inclined! 
Thou  art  not  for  thyself  but  for  mankind, 
And  to  despair  of  thee  were  to  despair 
Of  man,  of  man's  high  destiny,  of  God! 
Of  thee  should  man  despair,  the  journey  trod 
Upward,  through  unknown  eons,  stair  on  stair, 
By  this  our  race,  with  bleeding  feet  and  slow, 
Were  but  the  pathway  to  a  darker  woe 
Than  yet  was  visioned  by  the  heavy  heart 
Of  prophet.     To  despair  of  thee!     Ah,  no! 
For  thou  thyself  art  Hope,  Hope  of  the  World 
thou  art! 


THE  QUEEN'S  YEAR. 

By  I.  N.  F.,  English  Correspondent  of  the  New  York 
Tribune. 

IT  -is,  indeed,  the  Queen's  Year.  Prime  Minis- 
ters have  come  and  gone  these  sixty  years,  but  she 
has  remained  in  sympathetic  touch  with  English 
thought  and  sentiment,  and  is  closer  to  the  hearts 
of  her  subjects  in  her  old  age  than  she  was  in  her 
girlhood,  when  her  coronation  and  marriage  were 
like  romances  of  Wonderland. 

The  influence  of  this  gracious  and  womanly  sov- 
ereign at  home  and  abroad  has  never  been  greater 
than  it  is  at  the  opening  of  what  is  already  known 
as  the  Queen's  Year.  Connected  as  she  is  by 
family  ties  with  nearly  all  the  reigning  houses  of 
the  Continent,  and  respected  as  an  experienced 


3*0  THE   QUEEN'S    YEAR. 

ruler  of  unrivaled  judgment  and  sagacity,  her  will 
is  one  of  the  secret  forces  of  European  diplomacy. 
Nor  is  her  influence  confined  to  monarchical  coun- 
tries, where  royalty  is  grateful  to  her  for  rendering 
its  calling  respectable  and  secure,  since  she  has 
taught  her  fellow-sovereigns  how  to  govern  in  a 
conservative  spirit.  It  has  been  a  bond  of  unity 
between  England  and  republican  America,  where 
the  fact  has  never  been  forgotten  that  her  sympa- 
thies were  instinctively  on  the  side  of  the  Union 
during  the  Civil  War,  when  her  responsible  Min- 
isters erred  in  judgment.  During  the  last  year  she 
has  been  unremitting  in  her  efforts  to  bring  about 
a  restoration  of  good  feeling  between  the  two 
branches  of  the  English-speaking  race,  and  per- 
haps the  happiest  moment  of  the  Queen's  Year  will 
be  that  in  which  the  gracious,  peace-loving  sover- 
eign receives  final  assurance  that  the*  International 
Arbitration  Court  has  been  established. 

Potent  as  the  Queen's  influence  has  been  in 
diplomacy  and  politics,  and  capable  and  sagacious 
as  she  is  as  a  practical  administrator  of  a  worldwide 
realm,  the  force  of  her  example  has  been  strongest 
in  ennobling  the  virtues  of  home  life  and  womanly 
character.  Imitation  is  the  commonest  character- 
istic of  English  life.  Every  class  looks  up  to  those 
who  are  on  a  higher  social  level  than  itself,  and 
copies  their  phrases,  manners,  and  way  of  living. 
The  Queen  has  been  for  sixty  years  the  crowning 
figure  of  English  society,  and  she  has  been  the 
embodiment  of  the  homely  virtues  of  domestic  life. 


THE  MARYLAND    YELLOW    THROAT.       311 

Her  influence  has  always  been  exerted  with 
womanly  constancy  against  luxurious  vice  and 
fashionable  immorality.  She  has  dignified  the 
English  home.  This  is  the  chief  glory  of  her  reign, 
and  it  will  be  commemorated  wherever  her  health 
is  drunk  during  the  Queen's  Year. 


THE   MARYLAND   YELLOW   THROAT. 

By  HENRY  VAN  DYKE,  Clergyman,  Author.  B.  1852, 
New  York  ;  resides  in  New  York.  * 

This  poem  is  contained  in  "  The  Builders,  and  Other 
Poems,"  copyright  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York. 

WHILE  May  bedecks  the  naked  trees 
With  tassels  and  embroideries, 
And  many  blue-eyed  violets  beam 
Along  the  edges  of  the  stream, 
I  hear  a  voice  that  seems  to  say, 
Now  near  at  hand,  now  far  away, 
Witchery — witchery — -witchery! 


An  incantation  so  serene, 
So  innocent,  befits  the  scene: 
There's  magic  in  that  small  bird's  note — 
See,  there  he  flits — the  yellow-throat; 
A  living  sunbeam,  tipped  with  wings, 
A  spark  of  light  that  shines  and  sings 
Witchery — witchery — witchery! 


312      .  THE  MARYLAND    YELLOW    THROAT. 

You  prophet  with  a  pleasant  name, 
If  out  of  Mary-land  you  came, 
You  know  the  way  that  thither  goes 
Where  Mary's  lovely  garden  grows. 
Fly  swiftly  back  to  her,  I  pray, 
And  try,  to  call  her  down  this  way, 
Witchery — witchery — witchery! 

Tell  her  to  leave  her  cockle-shells, 
And  all  her  little  silver  bells 
That  blossom  into  melody, 
And  all  her  maids  less  fair  than  she — 
She  does  not  need  these  pretty  things, 
For  everywhere  she  comes,  she  brings 
Witchery — witchery — witchery! 

The  woods  are  greening  overhead, 
And  flowers  adorn  each  mossy  bed; 
The  waters  babble  as  they  run — 
One  thing  is  lacking,  only  one; 
If  Mary  were  but  here  to-day, 
I  would  believe  your  charming  lay, 
Witchery — witchery — witchery! 

Along  the  shady  road  I  look ; 
Who's  coming  now  across  the  brook? 
A  woodland  maid,  all  robed  in  white — 
The  leaves  dance  round  her  with  delight, 
The  stream  laughs  out  beneath  her  feet — 
Sing,  merry  bird,  the  charm's  complete, 
Witchery — witchery — witchery! 


LUCINDA'S  FAN.  3T3 

LUCINDA'S  FAN. 

By  FRANK  LEBBY  STANTON,  Editor  of  Atlanta  Constitu- 
tion. 
From  Town  Topics. 

THROUGH  its  feathery  bars  twinkled  twin  little  stars 

On  the  gallants  who  came  to  woo, 
And  a  glimmer  of  pearls 
And  a  shimmer  of  curls 

Were  seen  o'er  its  barriers  blue. 
And  knights  who  had  won  the  red  rose  of  the  fray 
Were  waved  by  its  subtle  enchantment  away. 

It  caught  the  cool  zephyrs  from  violet  vales 

And  rippled  them  over  the  lace. 
Its  velvety  tips 
Knew  the  red  of  her  lips 

And  the  delicate  dimples  a-race, 
And,  thoughtfully  tapping  with  hesitant  love, 
It  sounded  the  knell  of  true  hearts  on — her  glove. 

It  dazzled  the  dreaming  of  peasant  and  prince 

In  a  witching  and  wonderful  way, 
And  the  birds  of  the  blooms 
They  were  slain  for  its  plumes — 

Oh,  its  mistress  was  fickle  as  they! — 
The  envy  of  maid  and  the  worship  of  man, 
For  the  fame  of  her  face  and  the  fate  of  her  fan. 

'  But  one  came  to  woo  with  his  sword  at  his  side 
And  his  laurel  all  worthily  won, 


3 H  WOMAN  IN  POLITICS. 

And  strangely  and  sweet 
Fluttered  down  at  his  feet 

The  fan — for  its  mission  was  done. 
Good  grace  to  the  gallants  it  warded  away, 
But  love  came  in  triumph  and  gained  the  fair  day. 


WOMAN  IN  POLITICS. 

• 

By  J.  ELLEN  FOSTER.     Resides  at  Washington,  D.  C. 
An  extract  from  an  address  delivered  before  the  World's 

Congress  of  Representative  Women,  held  in  Chicago,  May 

15-22,  1893. 

WITH  the  growth  of  human  brotherhood,  and  its 
necessary  correlative,  popular  government,  woman, 
as  a  part  of  glorified  humanity  and  elevated  with  its 
uplift,  found  herself  side  by  side  with  man;  his 
helper  not  only,  as  formerly,  in  things  temporal, 
but  his  companion  in  all  things.  To-day  all  forces 
in  human  existence  and  human  relations  have  been 
exalted  and  refined.  As  far  removed  as  is  the 
beast  of  burden  from  the  electrician's  wire,  so  far 
is  the  woman  of  the  earlier  years  from  her  sister  of 
the  twentieth  century's  dawn. 

As  the  humanitarian  idea  has  plowed  its  way 
through  human  history,  woman  has  developed  with 
that  idea,  and  now  her  finer  instincts,  her  keener 
intuitions,  and  her  patient  heart  are  the  full  com- 
plement of  the  robust  masculinity  which  has  con- 
quered nature.  The  two  united  glorify  humanity. 

It  is  no  longer  a  question  of  man  or  woman,  but 


IN   THE  KING'S  GARDEN.  3JS 

of  quality  of  service,  and  of  power  to  meet  the 
world's  need. 

The  ideal  woman  is  no  longer  the  pale,  white 
lily  of  mediaeval  romance;  she  is  a  living,  breath- 
ing, thinking,  doing  human  being — a  well-equipped 
helpmeet  in  all  life's  activities.  There  is  no  grander 
science  than  that  of  politics,  except  the  science  of 
theology.  How  God  governs  the  universe  of  mind 
and  holds  in  his  hand  the  universe  of  matter  is  the 
grandest  theme  the  soul  can  contemplate;  next  in 
dignity  are  the  principles  and  methods  which  con- 
trol and  apply  human  agencies  to  masses  of  citi- 
zens for  the  general  good.  This  is  political  science. 
We  pity  the  narrowness  which  cannot  comprehend 
the  dignity  of  this  study;  we  are  patient  with  weak- 
ness which  cannot  grasp  it;  we  make  no  answer 
to  those  who  ridicule  it;  but  we  give  heart  and 
hand  in  patriotic  devotion  to  the  women  who  reach 
out  to  know  and  to  do  large  things  for  the  home 
and  for  the  flag. 


IN   THE   KING'S   GARDEN. 

By  ABBIE  F.  BROWN  in  Youth's  Companion. 

"  OH,  not  for  long,  ah,  not  for  long  shall  I  be  lin- 
gering 
In  the  garden  of  the  king!  " 

So  blithely  and  so  proudly  sang  the  rose, 
*'  For  my  lady  found  me  fair 
And  will  pluck  me  for  her  hair, 

And  I  shall  go  with  her  where  she  goes." 


316  THE  HOPE   OF   THE  NATION. 

"  I  care  not,  oh,  I  care  not  for  the  king  or  for  the 

queen, 
Though  the  fairest  ever  seen." 

Sang  the  primrose  from  the  bed  across  the  way, 
"  For  the  poet  passed  along 
And  wove  me  in  a  song, 

And  I  shall  live  forever  in  his  lay." 

But  the  violet  beside  them  only  bent  its  head  and 

smiled, 
For  it  knew  a  little  child 

Had  stolen  to  the  corner  where  it  grew. 
She  had  named  it  best  of  all 
And  fairest,  though  so  small, 

And  crowned  it  with  a  kiss.     But  no  one  knew. 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  NATION. 

By  JACOB  GOULD  SCHURMAN,  Author,  Educator.  B.  1854, 
Prince  Edward  Island.  Since  1890,  President  of  Cornell 
University  ;  resides  at  Ithaca,  N.  Y. 

From  an  address  before  the  Cornell  Alumni  Association 
at  New  York,  February  27,  1897. 

IT  is  a  remarkable  age  in  which  we  live.  Prob- 
lems as  old  as  the  race  and  as  new  as  its  latest 
member  press  heavily  upon  us.  Yet  in  heaven  the 
stars  shine  calm  and  serene  and  friendly  as  of  yore. 
The  nations  snarl  at  one  another's  heels;  but  the 
English-speaking  race  will  settle  their  differences, 
not  on  the  bloody  field  of  battle,  but  in  the  sacred 


THE  HOPE   OF   THE  NATION.  317 

forum  of  justice  and  right.  Let  us  have  the  Arbi- 
tration Treaty,  and  inaugurate  for  international 
affairs  a  new  epoch  in  the  history  of  mankind. 
The  first  stage  in  civilization  was  the  substitution 
of  the  award  of  the  judge  for  the  blow  of  the 
avenger.  It  began  with  the  clan  or  tribe  and  ex- 
tended to  the  nation.  At  the  dawn  of  the  twentieth 
Christian  century  we  shall,  I  believe,  see  this  prin- 
ciple of  municipal  polity  applied  to  international 
disputes.  And  it  is  glory  enough  for  the  United 
States  to  have  been  the  champion  of  this  beneficent 
change.  In  domestic  affairs,  too,  there  is  cause  for 
congratulation.  Though  the  process  is  gradual,  it 
is  clear  that  trade  is  improving  and  that  industries, 
are  reviving.  Certain  it  is  that  the  national  honor 
is  unsullied,  and  the  government  and  people 
scrupulously  discharge  all  their  obligations.  A 
good  name,  well  deserved,  is  the  best  thing  on 
earth,  whether  for  nations  or  for  individuals. 

If  the  republic  is  to  be  preserved  and  improved 
every  citizen  must  be  uplifted.  Property  must  be 
kept  inviolate,  yet  the  popular  sense  of  justice  must 
not  be  outraged.  Socialism  as  a  scheme  of  gov- 
ernment is  impracticable.  Yet  surely  we  may 
dream  of  better  co-operation  between  capitalists 
and  laborers  for  the  production  and  distribution  of 
wealth.  Such  problems  are  upon  us  as  we  pass 
into  the  twentieth  century.  We  must  solve  them. 
The  hope  of  our  nation  is  in  an  educated  intelli^ 
gence,  an  enlightened  conscience,  and  a  high  sense 
of  public  duty. 


3*8  COLUMBIA'S  B ANNEX. 

COLUMBIA'S  BANNER. 

By  EDNA  DEAN  PROCTER,  Poet.     B.  1838,  New  Hamp- 
shire. 

"  GOD  helping  me,"  cried  Columbus,  "  though  fair 

or  foul  the  breeze, 
I  will  sail  and  sail  till  I  find  the  land  beyond  the 

western  seas!  " — 
So  an  eagle  might  leave  its  eyrie,  bent,  though  the 

blue  should  bar, 

To  fold  its  wings  on  the  loftiest  peak  of  an  undis- 
covered star! 
And  into  the  vast  and  void  abyss  he  followed  the 

setting  sun; 
Nor  gulfs  nor  gales  could  fright  his  sails  till  the 

wondrous  quest  was  done. 
But  O  the  weary  vigils,  the  murmuring,  torturing 

days, 
Till  the  Pinto.' s  gun,  and  the  shout  of  "  Land!  "  set 

the  black  night  ablaze! 
Till  the  shore  lay  fair  as  Paradise  in  morning's 

balm  and  gold, 
And  a  world  was  won  from  the  conquered  deep, 

and  the  tale  of  the  ages  told ! 

Uplift  the  starry  Banner!     The  best  age  is  begun! 
We  are  the  heirs  of  the  mariners  whose  voyage  that 

morn  was  done. 
Measureless    lands    Columbus    gave    and    river* 

through  zones  that  roll, 


COLUMBIA'S  BANNER.  319 

But  his  rarest,  noblest  'bounty  was  a  New  World 

for  the  Soul ! 
For  he  sailed  from  the  Past  with  its  stifling  walls, 

to  the  Future's  open  sky, 
And  the  ghosts  of  gloom  and  fear  were  laid  as  the 

breath  of  heaven  went  by; 
And  the  pedant's  pride  and  the  lordling's  scorn 

were  lost,  in  that  vital  air, 
As  fogs  are  lost  when  sun  and  wind  sweep  ocean 

blue  and  bare; 
And  Freedom  and  larger  Knowledge  dawned  clear,. 

the  sky  to  span, 
The  birthright,  not  of  priest  or  king,  but  of  every 

child  of  man ! 

Uplift  the  New  World's  Banner  to  greet  the  exult- 
ant sun! 

Let  its  rosy  gleams  still  follow  his  beams,  as  swift 
to  west  they  run, 

Till  the  wide  air  rings  with  shout  and  hymn  to  wel- 
come it  shining  high, 

And  our  eagle  from  lone  Katahdin  to  Shasta's  snow 
can  fly 

In  the  light  of  its  stars  as  fold  on  fold  is  flung  to 
the  autumn  sky! 

Uplift  it,  Youths  and  Maidens,  with  songs  and 
loving  cheers; 

Through  triumphs,  raptures,  it  has  waved,  through 
agonies  and  tears. 

Columbia  looks  from  sea  to  sea  and  thrills  with  joy 
to  know 


COLUMBIA'S  BANNER. 

Her  myriad  sons,  as  one,  would  leap  to  shield  it 

from  a  foe! 
And  you  who  soon  will  be  the  State,  and  shape 

each  great  decree, 
Oh,  vow  to  live  and  die  for  it,  if  glorious  death 

must  be! 
The  brave  of  all  the  centuries  gone  this  starry  Flag 

have  wrought; 
In  dungeons  dim,  on  gory  fields,  its  light  and  peace 

were  bought; 
And  you  who  front  the  future — whose  days  our 

dreams  fulfill — 
On  Liberty's  immortal  height,  oh,  plant  it  firmer 

still! 
For  it  floats  for  broadest  learning;  for  the  soul's 

supreme  release; 
For  law  disdaining  license;  for  righteousness  and 

peace; 
For  valor  born  of  justice;  and  its  amplest  scope 

and  plan 
Makes  a  queen  of  every  woman,  a  king  of  every 

man! 
While  forever,  like  Columbus,  o'er  Truth's  unfath- 

omed  main 
It  pilots  to  the  hidden  isles,  a  grander  realm  to 

gain. 

Ah!  what  a  mighty  trust  is  ours,  the  noblest  ever 

sung, 
To  keep   this   Banner   spotless   its   kindred   stars 

among! 


COLUMBIA'S  BANNER.  321 

Our  fleets  may  throng  the  oceans — our  forts  the 
headlands  crown — 

Our  mines  their  treasures  lavish  for  mint  and  mart 
and  town — 

Rich  fields  and  flocks  and  busy  looms  bring  plenty, 
far  and  wide — 

And  statelier  temples  deck  the  land  than  Rome's 
or  Athens'  pride — 

And  science  dare  the  mysteries  of  earth  and  wave 
and  sky — 

Till  none  with  us  in  splendor  and  strength  and  skill 
can  vie; 

Yet,  should  we  reckon  Liberty  and  Manhood  less 
than  these, 

And  slight  the  right  of  the  humblest  between  our 
circling  seas, — 

Should  we  be  false  to  our  sacred  past,  our  fathers' 
God  forgetting, 

This  Banner  would  lose  its  luster,  our  sun  be  nigh 
his  setting! 

But  the  dawn  will  sooner  forget  the  east,  the  tides 
their  ebb  and  flow, 

Than  you  forget  our  radiant  Flag,  and  its  match- 
less gifts  forego! 

Nay!  you  will  keep  it  high-advanced  with  ever- 
brightening  sway — 

The  Banner  whose  light  betokens  the  Lord's  di- 
viner day — 

-  Leading  the  nations  gloriously  in  Freedom's  holy 
way! 


322         THE    TEACHING   OF    THE   COLLEGES. 

No  cloud  on  the  field  of  azure — no  stain  on  the 

rosy  bars — 
God  bless  you,  Youths  and  Maidens,  as  you  guard 

the  Stripes  and  Stars! 


THE  TEACHING  OF  THE  COLLEGES. 

By  SETH  Low,  Educator,  President  of  Columbia  College, 
New  York.  B.  1850,  New  York  ;  resides  in  New  York. 

From  an  address  delivered  before  the  New  England 
Society,  in  New  York  City,  December  22,  1892. 

IT  is  a  legitimate  source  of  pleasure  and  of  pride 
to  all  of  us  who  claim  our  parentage  from  New 
England,  and  I  believe  I  may  say  without  reserve 
to  all  of  any  origin,  who  are  engaged  in  the  higher 
education  all  over  the  country,  that  New  England's 
old  college  foundations  still  endure  and  perform 
still  their  ancient  and  honorable  service.  They 
have  weathered  the  storms  of  centuries.  They  still 
illustrate  to  their  younger  sisters  a  high  educa- 
tional ideal  and  an  absolute  fidelity  to  every  pecu- 
niary trust.  They  set  a  standard  such  that  none 
may  be  unworthy  who  strives  to  attain  it.  The 
effort  to  surpass  it  is  the  animating  ambition  of  the 
higher  education  throughout  the  land.  This  is 
genuine  leadership.  It  rests  in  part,  and  legiti- 
mately, upon  the  fact  of  age,  but  only  because  in 
their  age  they  are  full  of  the  fire  and  vigor  of  youth. 
This  animating  influence  going  out  from  them  is  a 
splendid  contribution  to  the  educational  life  of  the 
country. 


THE  TEACHING  OF  THE  COLLEGES.    323 

In  New  England,  and  everywhere,  our  colleges 
teach  idealism  and  they  teach  patriotism.  It  was 
at  Amherst  that  Henry  Ward  Beecher  first  felt  the 
spark  that  set  his  nature  on  fire  and  made  him  the 
fearless  champion  of  the  slave.  The  secret  is  a 
simple  one.  In  college  young  men  are  brought,  at 
a  time  of  life  when  they  are  peculiarly  sensitive  to 
such  influences,  into  personal  contact  with  men  of 
character,  who  are  not  often  worldly-minded,  in 
any  sordid  sense,  but  who  often  are  fine  types  of 
devotion  to  some  forms  of  truth.  They  come 
under  the  influence,  also,  of  the  great  thoughts  of 
the  great  men  of  other  days.  It  is  not  strange, 
therefore,  that  when  they  go  out  into  the  com- 
munity they  lend  themselves  readily  to  Civil  Serv- 
ice Reform,  or  to  whatever  may  chance  to  be  the 
great  reform  of  their  time.  For,  with  all  this  ideal- 
ism, the  colleges  teach  history  and  philosophy. 
Something  the  graduates  know  also  of  the  science 
of  government,  not  as  it  is  illustrated  in  the  murky 
waters  of  current  history,  but  as  it  is  embodied  in 
the  profound  teaching  of  past  politics  and  the  great 
utterances  of  great  leaders.  The  Federalist  was 
entirely  a  college  contribution  to  the  adoption  of 
the  Constitution  of  the  United  States.  Thus  the 
colleges  are  constantly  at  work  making  good  citi- 
zens, men  who  are  at  once  instructed  as  to  what 
good  government  is  and  who  are  ready 'and  anx- 
ious to  do  their  part  to  secure  it  for  their  locality 
and  their  country.  Happily,  good  citizenship  is  not 
dependent  upon  a  college  education.  I  mean  only 


324  MY  SISTER  HAS  A   BEAU. 

that  in  the  direction  of  good  citizenship  the  influ- 
ence of  the  college  is  distinctly  and  strongly  felt. 

When  that  last  test  of  patriotism  came,  that  time 
of  peril  brought,  how  joyfully  the  young  men  of  the 
colleges  sprang  into  the  breach.  In  the  fine 
phrase  of  a  college  man  of  Massachusetts,  "  they 
threw  away  like  a  flower  "  life  and  all  that  men  hold 
most  dear.  I  confess  that,  to  me,  Harvard's  Me- 
morial Hall  is  a  sacred  shrine.  I  cannot  enter  it 
unmoved.  I  never  leave  it  without  a  fresh  sense  of 
what  it  means  to  be  a  citizen  of  a  free  country.  I 
understand  there  that  the  learning  of  the  wise  man 
is  not  enough,  that  for  the  patriot  it  must  be  en- 
nobled by  the  spirit  that  would  surrender  learning 
and  life  itself  for  the  country  of  his  love. 


MY  SISTER  HAS  A  BEAU. 
By  ROY  FARRELL  GREENE.     From  Truth. 

WHEN  you'se  got  a  great  big  sister,  an  your  sister's 

got  a  beau, 
Why,  you  hev  to  mind  your  manners  an  mus'  act 

jes'  so  an  so. 
You'se  got  to  pay  attention  to  mos'  everything  'at's 

said, 
An  you  hev  to  be  mos'  careful  er  you're  hustled  off 

to  bed. 
I  used  to  hev  the  bestest  times  a-rompin'  round  at 

night 


MY  SISTER  HAS  A   BEAU.  325 

A-sayin',  "  Boo !  "  to  sister  an  a-growlin'  like  I'd 

bite, 
But  there  aint  no  fun  in  nothin',  an  a  feller  aint  no 

show 
When  he's  got  a  great  big  sister  an  his  sister  has  a 

beau. 

He  comes  to  see  her  Sundays,  an  they  sit  aroun'  an 

talk. 
Sometimes  he  takes  her  ridin',  an  sometimes  'ey 

take  a  walk, 
An  once  he  stayed  fer  dinner  'cause  my  mamma 

said  he  might, 
An  he  kep'  a-sayin'  "  Thank  you,"  jes'  as  soft  like 

an  perlite. 

Once  I  jes'  sort  o'  whistled  to  my  ma's  canary  bird, 
An  pa  said,  "  Tommy!  "  crosslike,  an  I  hadn't  said 

a  word. 

I  tell  you,  but  a  feller's  got  to  act  jes'  so  an  so 
When  he's  got  a  great  big  sister  an  his  sister  has  a 

beau. 

Ma  says  mebbe  he'll  marry  sis  an  take  her  off.  to 

stay. 

I  ast  my  pa  about  it,  an  he  said,  "  P'raps  he  may." 
But  when  he  comes  to  see  her,  why,  I've  got  to  be 

so  good, 
Sometimes  I  get  to  thinkin'  that  I  rather  wish  he 

would. 
'F  I  want  to  romp  on  Sundays,  why,  I've  got  to  be 

so  sly, 


326  THE   PURITANS. 

It  seems  that  all's  so  quiet,  an  I  feel  jes'  like  I'd  die, 
A  feller  can't  do  nothin'  an  he  haint  got  any  show 
When  he's  got  a  great  big  sister  an  his  sister  has  a 
beau. 


THE  PURITANS. 

By  HEMAN  LINCOLN  WAYLAND,  Clergyman,  Author.  B. 
1830,  Rhode  Island  ;  resides  in  Philadelphia. 

An  extract  from  an  address  delivered  before  the  New 
England  Society,  in  New  York  City,  December  22,  1892. 

THROUGH  the  Christian  centuries,  wherever 
there  were  brave  souls  that  testified  for  righteous- 
ness "  till  persecution  chased  them  up  to  Heaven  " ; 
among  the  Alps  of  Piedmont;  in  the  Grassmarket 
of  Edinburgh;  at  Smithfield;  in  Paris,  as  the  great 
bell  was  ushering  in  the  Eve  of  St.  Bartholomew's 
— there  were  the  spiritual  ancestors  of  the  Puritans. 

They  drew  their  blood  from  the  followers  of  the 
immortal  man  who,  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth,  after 
his  right  hand  had  been  chopped  off  upon  the 
scaffold,  waved  the  left  above  his  head,  shouting  for 
England  and  liberty.  The  fathers  of  these  men 
were  on  the  gallant  little  fleet  which  began  the  anni- 
hilation of  the  Armada,  and  which  made  liberty  a 
possibility,  as  the  Mayflower  made  it  a  reality. 

But  the  Puritans  were  not  satisfied  with  the  past. 
They  wanted  the  future  as  well.  They  believed  in 
the  existence  of  right  and  wrong,  and  in  the  infi- 
nite supremacy  of  righteousness.  They  believed 
in  the  intense  reality  of  God  and  of  the  unseen  and 


THE  PURITANS.  327 

the  spiritual;  they  held  that  these  were  the  real, 
and  that  everything  else  was  the  shadow.  They 
held  that  some  things  are  true,  and  that  some 
things  are  not  true;  that  truth  and  right  are  above 
thrones,  are  above  even  the  majority  dear  to  the 
American  heart.  They  believed  in  man  as  above 
institutions,  above  real  estate,  even  above  stocks. 
They  believed  that  greatness  is  immaterial;  that 
the  greatness  of  a  State,  of  a  city,  does  not  lie  in  its 
acreage,  nor  in  the  assessor's  books. 

Come  with  me  to  the  heart  of  New  England,  if  so 
I  may  call  Massachusetts.  Down  in  Middlesex  is 
a  little  village.  The  soil  is  thin  and  scanty;  there 
is  no  traffic,  there  are  no  manufactories.  A  small 
sluggish  stream  flows  through  the  quiet  village,  the 
houses  are  plain,  redeemed  from  bareness  only  by 
the  touches  of  good  taste.  Just  before  we  cross  the 
little  stream,  we  notice  a  simple  monument  in  the 
middle  of  the  way;  on  it  we  read  the  lines  that 
have  become  household  words  wherever  the  Eng- 
lish language  is  spoken. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  bridge,  a  little  space  by 
the  wayside  is  protected  by  an  iron  railing;  an  in- 
scription tells  us  that  here  lie  two  British  soldiers 
who  fell  on  the  I9th  of  April,  1775.  As  we  draw- 
near  the  village,  you  ask,  "  What  house  is  that?  " 
\Yhy  that  is  the  house  where  Mr.  Emerson  framed 
those  calm,  philosophical  sentences  that  have 
molded  character  all  over  the  world.  Yonder  is 
the  old  Manse  whose  ''  Mosses  "  are  immortalized 
by  the  magic  of  Hawthorne.  From  that  plain 


328  WHEN   THE   COWS  COME  HOME. 

dwelling  (now,  alas!  empty),  standing  a  little  back 
from  the  road,  Louisa  M.  Alcott  sent  out  "  Little 
Women  "  and  "  Little  Men  "  to  charm  a  genera- 
tion of  young  people.  In  the  public  square  is  a 
monument  to  the  sons  of  the  town  who  fell  in  the 
great  war.  In  the  village  cemetery,  a  massive,  un- 
hewn bowlder  marks  the  grave  of  that  son  of 
Nature,  Henry  D.  Thoreau;  in  the  near  distance 
Walden  Pond  glimmers  in  the  sun.  Weighed  in 
scales  which  are  responsive  to  ideas  and  high  in- 
spirations, this  village  is  greater  than  Babylon, 
greater  than  old  Rome. 

Not  satisfied  with  great  principles,  the  Puritans 
were  avaricious  of  great  achievements.  They  sub- 
dued forests,  organized  emigration,  marched  west- 
ward under  the  star  of  empire.  They  preserved  the 
Union,  annihilated  slavery,  crushed  repudiation, 
made  the  promises  of  the  nation  equal  to  gold; 
they  have  spoken  the  word  of  protest  and  pleading 
in  behalf  of  the  Chinaman  and  the  Indian  and  the 
African.  And  wherever  there  has  been  a  battle  for 
God  and  humanity  there  they  and  their  sons  have 
been. 


WHEN  THE  COWS  COME  HOME. 
By  AGNES  E.  MITCHELL,  Poet  ;  resides  in  Michigan. 


klingle,  klangle,  klingle, 
Far  down  the  dusty  dingle, 

The  cows  are  coming  home, 


WHEN   THE   COWS  COME  HOME.  329 

Now  sweet  and  clear,  now  faint  and  low, 
The  airy  tinklings  come  and  go, 
Like  chimings  from  the  far-off  tower, 
Or  patterings  of  an  April  shower 
That  makes  the  daisies  grow. 

Ko-ling,  ko-lang,  kolingle-lingle, 
Far  down  the  darkening  dingle, 

The  cows  come  slowly  home; 
And  old-time  friends,  and  twilight  plays, 
And  starry  nights  and  sunny  days, 
Come  trooping  up  the  misty  ways, 

When  the  cows  come  home. 

With  jingle,  jangle,  jingle, 
Soft  tones  that  sweetly  mingle, 

The  cows  are  coming  home; 
And  mother-songs  of  long-gone  years, 
And  baby  joys  and  childish  fears, 
And  youthful  hopes  and  youthful  tears, 

When  the  cows  come  home. 

With  ringle,  rangle,  ringle, 
By  twos  and  threes  and  single, 

The  cows  are  coming  home; 
A-loitering  in  the  checkered  stream, 
Where  the  sun-rays  dance  and  gleam, 
Clarine,  Peach-bloom,  and  Phoebe  Phyllis 
Stand  knee-deep  in  the  creamy  lilies, 

In  a  drowsy  dream. 


33°  AMERICAN  PATRIOTISM. 

To-link,  to-lank,  tolinkle-linkle, 

O'er  banks  with  buttercups  a-twinkle, 

The  cows  come  slowly  home. 
Let  down  the  bars;  let  in  the  train 
Of  long-gone  songs,  and  flowers,  and  rain; 
For  dear  old  times  come  back  again 

When  the  cows  come  home. 


AMERICAN  PATRIOTISM. 

By  HORACE  PORTER,  Orator,  Diplomat,  Soldier.  B.  1837, 
Pennsylvania  ;  resides  in  Paris  as  Ambassador  from  the 
United  States  to  France. 

An  extract  from  an  address  delivered  at  the  close  of  the 
Columbus  celebration  in  New  York,  September  30,  1892. 

THE  citizen  who  can  claim  America  for  his  home 
is  possessed  of  a  priceless  heritage.  Being  only 
four  hundred  years  since  its  discovery,  only  a  little 
more  than  a  century  since  its  people  earned  the 
right  to  establish  a  government  of  their  own,  the 
American  mind  is  not  bound  to  a  servile  contem- 
plation of  the  distant  past,  but  is  free  to  dwell  upon 
the  abundant  blessings  of  the  present  and  the  prom- 
ised glories  of  the  future.  Its  people,  not  unmind- 
ful in  their  proud  ancestry  of  the  care  of  posterity, 
are  teaching  their  children  that  the  only  recognized 
title  to  superiority  is  the  favor  of  God,  and  that  the 
richest  legacy  which  man  can  leave  to  man  is  the 
memory  of  a  worthy  name, the  inheritance  of  a  good 
example.  Without  permitting  our  National  pride 
to  degenerate  into  National  egotism,  the  Ameri- 


AMERICAN  PATRIOTISM.         .     331 

can  can  justly  boast  of  a  land  which  is  worthy  of 
his  unwavering  loyalty,  his  devoted  patriotism. 
The  principles  came  down  from  honored  sires,  who 
had  been  reared  in  the  severe  school  of  adversity 
and  educated  in  hardship.  If  they  kindled  the 
true  fire  of  patriotism,  it  is  the  duty  of  their  descend- 
ants to  keep  the  embers  glowing.  Patriotism  must 
be  taught.  It  must  be  taught  to  the  young  when 
the  minds  are  impressionable,  when  the  hearts  are 
easily  molded,  lofty  sentiments  formed  and  voiced 
before  they  have  reached  the  sordid  age,  for,  after 
all,  the  child  is  but  the  father  of  the  man.  That  is 
the  reason  I  enjoyed,  more  than  all  things  else  con- 
nected with  these  memorable  celebrations,  the 
marching  through  the  avenues  of  our  cities  of  that 
phalanx  of  school  children,  their  cheery  voices 
uttering  patriotic  sentiments,,  their  hands  waving 
the  proud  emblem  of  their  country's  glory;  and  that 
is  the  reason  that  I  like  to  see  on  all* fete  days 
carried  through  our  streets  those  old  battle  flags 
brought  home  from  the  wars ;  those  precious  stand- 
ards, bullet-riddled,  battle-stained,  but  remnants  of 
their  former  selves,  scarcely  enough  left  of  them 
to  imprint  the  names  of  the  battles  they  had  seen. 

It  is  such  sights  as  these  that  teach  the  young 
that  the  flag  of  their  country  is  not  only  a  ^banner 
for  holiday  display,  but  that  it  is  a  proud  emblem  of 
dignity,  authority,  power — insult  it,  and  millions 
•will  rise  in  its  defense.  It  teaches  the  young  that 
that  flag  is  to  be  their  pillar  of  cloud  by  day,  their 
pillar  of  fire  by  night,  that  it  is  to  wave  above 


332  THE  PRAIRIE  FIRE. 

them  in  victory,  to  be  their  rallying  point  in  defeat, 
and  if  perchance  they  offer  up  their  lives,  a  sacri- 
fice in  its  defense,  its  gentle  folds  will  rest  upon 
their  bosoms  in  death,  and  its  crimson  stripes  will 
mingle  with  their  generous  heart's  blood. 

And  yet  it  requires  no  great  standing  military 
force,  and  has  no  threatening  or  troublesome 
neighbors.  The  infant  country  has  a  pretty  fair 
record  for  a  child.  Who  can  predict  four  hundred 
years  from  now  how  far  the  growing  nation  may 
dominate  the  policy  of  the  world?  Now  it  has. 
thrown  off  the  swaddling  clothes  of  infancy  and 
stands  clothed  in  robust  majesty  and  power,  in 
which  the  God  who  made  it  intends  that  it  shall 
henceforth  tread  the  earth.  It  is  now  moving 
down  the  great  highway  of  history,  teaching  by 
example,  marching  at  the  head  of  the  procession 
of  the  world's  events,  leading  the  van  of  civiliza- 
tion and  Christianized  liberty;  and  its  manifest  and 
avowed  destiny  is  to  light  the  path  of  liberty 
throughout  the  world,  until  human  freedom  and 
human  rights  become  the  common  heritage  of 
mankind. 


THE  PRAIRIE   FIRE. 
* 

By  C  W.  HALL. 

OVER  the  undulate  prairie 
I  rode  as  the  day  was  done; 

The  west  was  aglov: — but  to  northward 
A  glare  like  the  rising  sun — 


THE  PRAIRIE   FJRE.  333 

Seen  through  the  eddying  sea-mists, 

Broke  on  the  darkening  night, 
And  a  cloud  of  smoky  blackness 

Shut  out  the  star's  dim  light. 

I  felt  the  sweep  of  the  norther, 

But  a  deeper,  deadlier  chill 
Struck  to  my  heart  for  an  instant 

With  its  presage  of  death  and  ill. 
Then  I  drew  the  cinchas  tighter 

And  looked  to  stirrup  and  rein, 
As  the  northern  glare  grew  brighter 

And  the  gusts  gained  strength  amain. 

Then,  as  we  hurried  southward, 

Brighter,  nearer  and  higher, 
Like  lambent  serpents  heavenward 

Writhed  up  each  flaming  spire, 
Leaping  across  the  trenches 

Where  the  grass  was  thin  and  dry, 
Rolling  in  fiery  surges 

Where  the  reeds  stood  rank  and  high, 

• 

A  drifting  whirl  of  cinders, 

A  chorus  of  blinding  smoke, 
A  roaring  sea  of  fire — 

Across  the  plains  it  broke! 
From  the  pools  the  wild  fowl  darted 

To  circle  the  lurid  sky; 
From  his  lair  the  -scared  deer  started 

And  swept  like  a  phantom  by. 


334  THE  PRAIRIE  FIRE. 

On  toward  the  distant  river 

Wasted  by  weeks  of  drouth, 
Like  a  shaft  from  the  Sungod's  quiver 

We  sped  toward  the  murky  south. 
To  halt  was  death ;  and  far  distant 

Lay  life  and  safety  and  rest; 
The  air  grew  hot  and  each  instant 

The  foam  fell  on  counter  and  breast. 

Nearer  each  moment  the  fire  swept, 

Thicker  the  red  sparks  fell; 
Higher  the  roaring  flames  leapt 

With  the  blast  of  that  fiery  hell. 
I  felt  that  we  soon  must  stifle 

In  the  reek  of  that  merciless  hail, 
And  I  dropped  my  heavy  rifle 

In  the  midst  of  the  narrow  trail. 

But  bravely  my  trusty  courser 

Kept  on  in  his  headlong  flight — 
Though  his  labored  breath  grew  hoarser- 

Till  the  river  gleamed  in  sight, 
A  plunge  through  the  thickest  border 

Of  withered  grass  and  reed, 
And  the  waters  of  the  river 

Laved  the  heaving  flanks  of  my  steed. 

Up  to  the  brink  of  the  river 

Swept  the  waves  of  that  fiery  sea, 

With  pulses  and  limbs  aquiver 
I  could  neither  stand  nor  flee! 


TARIFF  REFORM.  335 

I  saw  the  flames  tower  heavenward 
With  dim  eyes  and  failing  breath; 

Then  all  around  was  darkness — 
A  faintness  and  gloom  like  death ! 

When  I  woke  the  flames  were  racing 

Far  westward  o'er  bluff  and  hill; 
My  faithful  steed  was  grazing 

On  the  banks  of  one  guardian  rill; 
And  I  offered  thanks  to  Heaven, 

Where  the  stars  shone  clear  and  bright, 
For  the  safety  and  mercy  given 

To  us  on  that  fearful  night. 


TARIFF    REFORM.   ' 

By  WILLIAM  LVNE  WILSON,  Statesman,  Jurist,  Orator.  B. 
1843,  Virginia. 

Mr.  Wilson  was  Postmaster  General  in  President  Cleve- 
land's Cabinet  and  is  now  President  of  Washington  and 
Lee  University  at  Lexington,  Va. 

This  extract' is  taken  from  his  speech  closing  the  discus- 
sion on  the  Wilson  Tariff  Bill,  delivered  in  the  National 
House  of  Representatives  at  Washington,  February  i, 
1894. 

THE  gentleman,  with  his  usual  skill  and  his  usual 
dexterity,  has  added  to  his  armor  the  weapons  of 
sarcasm  and  ridicule  against  this  tariff  reform 
movement.  If  reform  could  be  blocked  and  hin- 
"dered  by  ridicule,  if  great  causes  could  be  laughed 
down,  we  would  be  to-day  the  slaves  of  England  in- 
stead of  being  a  self-governing  American  people. 


336  TARIFF  REFORM. 

The  plain  Virginia  huntsmen,  who  in  my  county 
met  one  hundred  strong  and  marched  in  their  hunt- 
ing shirts  from  the  Potomac  to  the  relief  of  Boston, 
under  old  Daniel  Morgan,  were  clowns  in  appear- 
ance and  cut  but  a  sorry  figure  before  the  splendid 
troops  which  they  met  in  that  city.  Men  are  not 
to  be  judged  by  the  clumsiness  of  their  movements; 
but  are  ennobled  by  that  for  which  they  fight. 
The  Continentals  of  Washington  and  the  Virginia 
huntsmen  of  Daniel  Morgan,  while  they  may  have 
been  rudely  dressed,  and  may  have  been  clumsy 
in  their  movements,  bore  upon  their  standard 
the  freedom  which  we  now  enjoy.  This  is  a  very 
old  world,  but  long  before  human  history  be- 
gan to  be  written,  the  fatal  secret  was  disclosed 
that  there  is  no  easier,  no  quicker,  no  more  abun- 
dant way  of  getting  wealth  and  getting  power  than 
by  exercising  the  power  of  taxation  over  the  masses 
of  the  people.  That  secret,  when  disclosed,  was 
eagerly  seized  upon  before  the  very  dawning  of  hu- 
man history,  and  is  to-day  the  dominant  force  in 
all  the  world.  It  is  but  two  hundred  years  ago 
that  men  were  willing  to  fight  for  the  idea  that  gov- 
ernments were  made  to  serve  the  governed,  and 
not  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  govern. 

Not  yet,  in  all  the  world,  have  men  advanced  to 
that  point  where  the  government  is  operated  ex- 
clusively and  evenly  in  the  interest  of  all  the  gov- 
erned. That  is  the  goal  of  perfect  freedom.  That 
is  the  achievement  of  perfect  law.  And  that  is  the 
goal  to  which  this  party  is  courageously  and  hon- 


TARIFF  REFORM.  337 

estly  moving  in  its  fight  to-day  for  tariff  reform. 
Whenever  that  party  and  whenever  the  members 
of  it  are  able  to  cut  loose  from  local  and  selfish 
interests  and  to  keep  the  general  welfare  alone  in 
their  eye,  we  shall  reach  that  goal  of  perfect  free- 
dom, and  shall  bring  to  the  people  of  this  country 
that  prosperity  which  no  other  people  in  the  world 
has  ever  enjoyed.  I  remember  reading,  some  time 
ago,  in  a  speech  of  Sir  Robert  Peel's,  when  he  was 
beginning  his  system  of  tariff  reform  in  England, 
of  a  letter  which  he  had  receiver3  from  a  "  canny 
Scotchman  " — a  fisherman — in  which  the  man  pro- 
tested against  lowering  the  duty  on  herrings,  for 
fear,  he  said,  that  the  Norwegian  fishermen  would 
undersell  him;  but  he  assured  Sir  Robert,  in  clos- 
ing the  letter,  that  In  every  other  respect  except 
herring  he  was  a  thoroughgoing  free-trader.  Now, 
I  do  not  want  any  man  to  say  that  you  are  acting 
in  the  cause  of  herring,  not  in  the  cause  of  the 
people.  I  do  not  want  herring  to  stand  between 
any  of  you  and  the  enthusiastic  performance  of 
your  duty  to  the  party  and  your  duty  to  the  Ameri- 
can people. 

This  is  not  a  battle  expressly  on  this  tax  or  on 
that  tax ;  it  is  a  battle  for  human  freedom.  As  Mr. 
Burke  truly  said:  "  The  great  battles  of  human  free- 
dom have  been  waged  around  the  question  of  taxa- 
tion." You  may  think  to-day  that  some  "  herring  " 
"of  your  own  will  excuse  you  in  opposing  this  great 
movement;  you  may  think  to-day  that  some  rea- 
son of  locality,  some  desire  to  oblige  a  great 


33  8  SIR   CUPID. 

interest  behind  you,  may  excuse  you  if,  when  the 
roll  is  called,  your  name  shall  be  registered  among 
the  opponents  of  this  measure;  but  no  such  excuse 
will  cover  you.  The  men  who  had  the  opportunity 
to  sign  the  Declaration  of  Independence  and  re- 
fused or  neglected  because  there  was  something  in 
it  which  they  did  not  like — I  thank  God  there  were 
no  such  men — but  if  there  were,  what  would  be 
their  standing  in  history  to-day?  If,  on  the  bat- 
tlefields of  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill  there  had 
been  men  who  became  dissatisfied,  wanted  this 
thing  and  that  thing,  and  threw  away  their 
weapons,  what  do  you  suppose  would  have  been 
their  feelings  in  all  the  years  of  their  lives  when  the 
liberty  bells  rang  on  every  coming  anniversary  of 
American  freedom?  This  roll-call  is  a  roll  of 
honor.  It  is  a  re  11  of  freedom.  And  in  the  name 
of  honor,  and  in  the  name  of  freedom,  I  summon 
every  member  of  this  House. 


SIR  CUPID. 
By  FREDERICK  E.  WEATHERLY. 

SIR  CUPID  once,  as  I  have  heard, 

Determined  to  discover 
What  kind  of  a  man  a  maid  preferred 

Selecting  for  a  lover. 


SIR  CUPID.  339 

So,  putting  on  a  soldier's  coat, 

He  talked  of  martial  glory; 
And  from  the  way  he  talked,  they  say, 

She  seemed  to  like — the  story! 

Then,  with  a  smile  sedate  and  grim 

He  changed  his  style  and  station, 
In  shovel  hat  and  gaiters  trim, 

He  made  his  visitation. 
He  talked  of  this,  discoursed  on  that, 

Of  Palestine  and  Hermon; 
And  from  the  way  he  preached,  they  say, 

She  seemed  to  like — the  sermon! 

Then  changed  again,  he  came  to  her 

A  roaring,  rattling  sailor, 
He  cried,  "  Yo,  ho!  I  love  you  so!  " 

And  vowed  he'd  never  fail  her. 
He  talked  of  star  and  compass  true, 

The  glories  of  the  ocean, 
And  from  the  way  he  sang,  they  say, 

She  seemed  to  like — the  notion! 

Then  Cupid,  puzzled  in  his  mind, 

Discarded  his  disguises; 
"  That  you  no  preference  seem  to  find, 

My  fancy  much  surprises." 
"Why  so?"  she  cried,  with  roguish  smile, 

"Why,  prithee,  why  so  stupid? 
I  do  not  care  what  garb  you  wear 

So  long  as  you  are — Cupid !  " 


34°  THE  HERO-PRESIDENT. 


THE    HERO-PRESIDENT. 

By  HORACE  PORTER,  Orator,  Author,  Soldier.  B.  1837, 
Pennsylvania  ;  resides  in  Paris.  In  1897,  General  Porter 
was  appointed  Ambassador  to  France. 

The  following  extract  is  a  portion  of  an  oration  delivered 
at  the  dedication  of  the  Grant  Monument  in  New  York, 
April  27.  1897.  It  was  largely  due  to  the  efforts  of  General 
Porter  that  this  splendid  mausoleum  was  completed. 

IT  is  all  like  a  dream.  One  can  scarcely  realize 
the  lapse  of  time  and  the  memorable  events  which 
have  occurred  since  our  hero  President  was  first 
proclaimed  one  of  the  great  of  earth.  The  dial 
hands  upon  the  celestial  clock  record  the  flight  of 
more  than  a  generation  since  the  legions  of 
America's  manhood  poured  down  from  the  hill- 
tops, surged  up  from  the  valleys,  knelt  upon  their 
native  soil  to  swear  eternal  allegiance  to  the  Union, 
and  went  forth  to  seal  the  oath  with  their  blood  in 
marching  under  the  victorious  banners  of  Ulysses 
S.  Grant.  To-day  countless  numbers  of  his  con- 
temporaries, their  children,  and  their  children's 
children  gather  about  his  tomb  to  give  permanent 
sepulture  to  his  ashes  and  to  recall  the  record  of 
his  imperishable  deeds. 

He  possessed  an  abiding  confidence  in  the  hon- 
esty and  intelligence  of  his  fellow-countrymen,  and 
always  retained  his  deep  hold  upon  their  affections. 
Even  when  clothed  with  the  robes  of  the  master, 
he  forgot  not  that  he  was  still  the  servant  of  the 
people.  In  every  great  crisis  he  was  content  to 


THE   HERO-PRESIDENT.  341 

leave  the  efforts  to  his  countrymen  and  the  results 
to  God. 

As  a  commander  of  men  in  the  field  he  mani- 
fested the  highest  characteristics  of  the  soldier,  as 
evinced  in  every  battle  in  which  he  was  engaged 
from  Palo  Alto  to  Appomattox.  He  was  bold 
in  conception,  fixed  in  purpose,  and  vigorous  in 
execution.  He  never  allowed  himself  to  be  thrown 
on  the  defensive,  but  always  aimed  to  take  the 
initiative  in  battle.  He  made  armies  and  not  cities 
the  objective  points  of  his  campaigns.  Obstacles 
which  would  have  deterred  another  seemed  only 
to  inspire  him  with  greater  confidence,  and  his  sol- 
diers soon  learned  to  reflect  much  of  his  determi- 
nation. His  motto  was  "  When  in  doubt  move  to 
the  front."  His  sword  always  pointed  the  way  to 
an  advance;  its  hilt  was  never  presented  to  an 
enemy.  He  once  wrote  in  a  letter  to  his  father, 
"  I  never  expect  to  have  an  army  whipped,  unless  it 
is  badly  whipped,  and  can't  help  it."  He  enjoyed 
a  physical  constitution  which  enabled  him  to  en- 
dure every  form  of  fatigue  and  privation  incident 
to  military  service  in  the  field.  His  unassuming 
manner,  purity  of  character,  and  absolute  loyalty 
inspired  loyalty  in  others,  confidence  in  his  methods, 
and  gained  him  the  devotion  of  the  humblest  of  his 
subordinates.  He  exhibited  a  rapidity  of  thought 
and  action  on  the  field  which  enabled  him  to  move 
with  a  promptness  rarely  ever  equaled,  and  which 
never  failed  to  astonish,  and  often  to  baffle,  the  best 
efforts  of  a  less  vigorous  opponent.  A  study  of  his 


342  THE  HERO-PRESIDENT. 

martial  deeds  inspires  us  with  the  grandeur  of 
events  and  the  majesty  of  achievement.  He  did 
not  fight  for  glory,  but  for  National  existence  and 
the  equality  and  rights  of  men.  His  sole  ambi- 
tion was  his  country's  prosperity.  His  victories 
failed  to  elate  him.  In  the  dispatches  which  re- 
ported his  triumphs  there  was  no  word  of  arro- 
gance, no  exaggeration,  no  aim  at  dramatic  effect. 
With  all  his  self-reliance  he  was  never  betrayed 
into  immodesty  of  expression.  He  never  under- 
rated himself  in  a  battle,  he  never  overrated  himself 
in  a  report.  He  could  not  only  command  armies, 
he  could  command  himself.  Inexorable  as  he  was 
in  battle,  war  never  hardened  his  heart  or  weak- 
ened the  strength  of  his  natural  affections.  He 
retained  a  singularly  sensitive  nature,  a  rare  ten- 
derness of  feeling;  shrank  from  the  sight  of  blood, 
and  was  painfully  alive  to  every  form  of  human 
suffering. 

General  Grant  was  a  man  who  seemed  to  be 
created  especially  to  meet  great  emergencies.  It 
was  the  very  magnitude  of  the  task  which  called 
forth  the  powers  that  mastered  it.  Whether  lead- 
ing an  attack  in  Mexico,  dictating  the  terms  of  sur- 
render to  countless  thousands  in  the  War  of  the 
Rebellion,  suddenly  assuming  vast  responsibility  in 
great  crises  both  in  peace  and  in  war,  writing  state 
papers  as  President  which  were  to  have  a  lasting 
bearing  upon  the  policy  of  the  Government,  trav- 
eling through  older  lands  and  mingling  with  the 
descendants  of  a  line  of  kings  who  rose  and  stood 


THE  HERO-PRESIDENT.  343 

uncovered  in  his  presence — he  was  always  equal  to 
the  occasion  and  acquitted  himself  with  a  success 
that  challenges  the  admiration  of  the  world.  In 
trivial  matters  he  was  an  ordinary  man ;  in  momen- 
tous affairs  he  towered  as  a  giant.  As  Johnson 
said  of  Milton,  "  He  could  hew  a  Colossus  from  the 
rocks;  he  could  not  carve  faces  on  cherry  stones." 
Even  his  valor  on  the  field  of  carnage  was  not  su- 
perior to  the  heroism  he  displayed  when  in  his  fatal 
illness  he  confronted  the  only  enemy  to  whom  he 
ever  surrendered.  His  old  will  power  reasserted 
itself  in  his  determination  to  complete  his  memoirs. 
During  whole  months  of  physical  torture  he  with 
one  hand  held  death  at  arm's  length  while  with  the 
other  he  penned  the  most  brilliant  chapter  in 
American  history. 

His  countrymen  have  paid  him  a  tribute  of  grate- 
ful hearts;  they  have  reared  in  monumental  rock 
a  sepulcher  for  his  ashes,  a  temple  to  his  fame. 
The  fact  that  it  has  been  built  by  the  voluntary  con- 
tributions of  the  people  will  give  our  citizens  an 
individual  interest  in  preserving  it,  in  honoring  it. 
It  will  stand  throughout  the  ages  upon  this  con- 
spicuous promontory,  this  ideal  site.  It  will  over- 
look the  metropolis  of  the  republic  which  his 
efforts  saved  from  dismemberment;  it  will  be  re- 
flected in  the  noble  waters  of  the  Hudson,  upon 
which  pass  the  argosies  of  commerce,  so  largely 
multiplied  by  the  peace  secured  by  his  heroic 
deeds. 


344  EUTHANASIA. 


EUTHANASIA. 

By  MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON,  Poet.  B.  1820,  Virginia  ; 
d.  1897,  Maryland. 

Nearly  eighteen  months  before  her  death,  Mrs.  Preston 
is  said  to  have  written  this,  her  last  poem,  and  the  wish  ex- 
pressed in  it  was  granted  almost  to  the  letter  in  the  closing 
scenes  of  her  life. 

WITH  the  faces  the  dearest  in  sight, 
With  a  kiss  on  the  lips  I  love  best, 

To  whisper  a  tender  "  Good-night," 
And  pass  to  my  pillow  of  rest. 

To  kneel,  all  my  service  complete, 
All  duties  accomplished,  and  then 

To  finish  my  orisons  sweet, 

With  a  trustful  and  joyous  "  Amen." 

And  softly,  when  slumber  is  deep, 

Unwarned  by  a  shadow  before, 
On  a  halcyon  pillow  of  sleep 

To  float  to  the  Thitherward  shore. 

Without  a  farewell  or  a  tear, 

A  sob  or  a  flutter  of  breath, 
Unharmed  by  the  phantom  of  fear, 

To  glide  through  the  darkness  of  death. 

Just  so  would  I  choose  to  depart, 
Just  so  let  the  summons  be  given; 

A  quiver,  a  pause  of  the  heart, 
A  vision  of  angels — then  Heaven. 


ONE  OF  GOD'S  LITTLE  HEROES.  345 


ONE  OF  GOD'S  LITTLE  HEROES. 

By  MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON,  Poet.     B.  1820,  Virginia; 
d.  1897,  Maryland. 

THE  patter  of  feet  was  on  the  stair 
As  the  editor  turned  in  his  sanctum  chair 
And  said — for  weary  the  day  had  been — 
"  Don't  let  another  intruder  in." 

But  scarce  had  he  uttered  the  words  before 
A  face  peeped  in  at  the  half-closed  door, 
And  a  child  sobbed  out,  "  Sir,  mother  said 
I  should  come  and  tell  you  that  Dan  is  dead." 

"  And,  pray,  who  is  '  Dan  '?  "     The  streaming  eyes 
Looked  questioning  up  with  strange  surprise. 
"  Not  know  him?     Why,  sir,  all  day  he  sold 
The  papers  you  print,  through  wet  and  cold. 

"  The  newsboys  say  that  they  cannot  tell 
The  reason  his  stock  went  off  so  well. 
I  knew — with  his  voice  so  sweet  and  low, 
Could  anyone  bear  to  say  him  '  No  '? 

"  And  the  money  he  made,  whatever  it  be, 
He  carried  straight  home  to  mother  and  me. 
No  matter  about  his  rags,  he  said, 
If  only  he  kept  us  clothed  and  fed. 

"  And  he  did  it,  sir,  trudging  through  rain  and  cold, 
Nor  stopped  till  the  last  of  his  sheets  was  sold. 
But  he's  dead — he's  dead — and  we  miss  him  so! 
And  mother — she  thought  you  night  like  to  know." 


346       THREE  DA  YS  Iff  THE  LIFE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

In  the  paper  next  morning,  as  "  leader,"  ran 

A  paragraph  thus:  "  The  newsboy  Dan, 

One  of  God's  little  heroes,  who 

Did  nobly  the  duty  he  had  to  do— 

For  mother  and  sister  earning  bread 

By  patient  endurance  and  toil — is  dead." 


THREE  DAYS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF 
COLUMBUS. 

By  DELAVIGNE. 

ON  the  deck  stood  Columbus :  the  ocean's  expanse, 
Untried  and  unlimited,  swept  by  his  glance. 
"Back  to  Spain!"  cry  his  men;  "put  the  vessel 

about ! 

We  venture  no  farther  through  danger  and  doubt." 
"  Three  days,  and  I  give  you  a  world !  "  he  replied ; 
"  Bear  up,  my  brave  comrades ; — three  days  shall 

decide." 

He  sails, — but  no  token  of  land  is  in  sight ; 
He  sails, — but  the  day  shows  no  more  than  the 

night, 

On,  onward  he  sails,  while  in  vain  o'er  the  lee 
The  lead  is  plunged  down  through  a  fathomless  sea. 

The  pilot,  in  silence,  leans  mournfully  o'er 
The  rudder,  which  creaks  'mid  the  billowy  roar; 
He  hears  the  hoarse  moan  of  the   spray-driving 
blast, 


T//&EE  DA  YS  IN  THE  LIFE  Of  COLUMBVS.       347 

And  its  funeral  wail  through  the  shrouds  of  the 

mast; 

The  stars  of  far  Europe  have  sunk  in  the  skies, 
And  the  great  Southern  Cross  meets  his  terrified 

eyes. 
But  at  length  the  slow  dawn,  softly  streaking  the 

night, 

Illumes  the  blue  vault  with  its  faint  crimson  light. 
"  Columbus!  'tis  day,  and  the  darkness  is  o'er." 
"  Day!  and  what  dost  thou  see?  "    "  Sky  and  ocean. 

No  more!  " 

The  second  day's  past,  and  Columbus  is  sleeping, 

While  Mutiny  near  him  its  vigil  is  keeping. 

"Shall  he  perish?"  "Ay!  death!"  is  the  barba- 
rous cry; 

"  He  must  triumph  to-morrow,  or,  perjured,  must 
die!" 

Ungrateful  and  blind!  shall  the  world-linking  sea 

He  traced  for  the  Future  his  sepulcher  be? 

Shall  that  sea,  on  the  morrow,  with  pitiless  waves, 

Fling  his  corse  on  that  shore  which  his  patient  eye 
craves? 

The  corse  of  an  humble  adventurer  then; 

One  day  later, — Columbus,  the  first  among  men! 

But  hush!  he  is  dreaming!     A  veil  on  the  main, 
At  the  distant  horizon,  is  parted  in  twain, 
'And  now  on  his  dreaming  eye — rapturous  sight! 
Fresh  bursts  the  New  World  from  the  darkness  of 
night ! 


34^       THREE  DA  YS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

O  vision  of  glory,  how  dazzling  it  seems ! 

How  glistens  the  verdure !  how  sparkle  the  streams ! 

How  blue  the  far  mountains!  how  glad  the  green 

isles ! 
And  the  earth  and  the  ocean,  how  dimpled  with 

smiles! 
"Joy!   joy!"    cries    Columbus,    "this    region    is 

mine ! " 
Ah!  not  e'en  its  name,  wondrous  dreamer,  is  thine! 

At    length    o'er    Columbus    slow    consciousness 

breaks, — 
"Land!  land!"  cry  the  sailors;  "land!  land!"— 

he  awakes, — 

He  runs, — yes!  behold  it!  it  blesseth  his  sight, — 
The  land!  O  dear  spectacle!  transport!  delight! 
O  generous  sobs,  which  he  cannot  restrain ! 
What  will   Ferdinand   say?  and  the   Future?  and 

Spain? 

He  will  lay  this  fair  land  at  the  foot  of  the  throne, — 
His  king  will  repay  all  the  ills  he  has  known! 
In   exchange  for  a  world  what  are   honors   and 

gains? 
Or  a   crown?     But   how   is  he   rewarded? — with 

chains! 


GRADUATION.  349 

GRADUATION. 

By  PHILLIPS  BROOKS,  Clergyman.  B.  1835,  Massachu- 
setts ;  d.  1893,  Boston. 

From  an  address  delivered  at  the  Gannet  School,  Boston, 
Mass.,  June  27,  1871. 

THERE  are  stages  of  the  progress  which  most  of 
us  ought  to  make  as  we  at  least  draw  out  the 
scheme  and  programme  of  a  full  and  rounded  life. 
It  is  curious  to  see  how  we  give  the  same  accounts 
even  of  Nature,  and  make  of  her  years  and  seasons 
something  like  the  same  series  of  graduations 
which  we  find  in  our  own  life.  She,  too,  does  not 
seem  to  advance  in  one  continuous  ascent,  but  her 
rests  and  pauses  are  a  part  of  our  whole  concep- 
tion of  her  progress.  Each  winter  is  a  resting 
place  before  every  new  spring.  Each  June  is  a 
commencement  season  when  the  springtime  seems 
to  graduate  into  summer,  and  every  year  seems 
to  come  to  a  platform  of  pause  whence  its  successor 
starts  out  at  a  new  angle  to  mount  to  higher  things, 
toward  the  perfect  year.  No  doubt  it  b  partly  our 
own  view  of  her,  resulting  from  our  own  experi- 
ence. The  oak  tree  and  the  rose,  perhaps,  have 
not  our  theory  of  springtime.  There  is  a  vague- 
ness about  all  these  dividing  lines,  but  neither  have 
the  stages  of  our  human  lives  perfectly  clear  divi- 
sions They  shade  off  into  one  another,  and  so 
Nature's  picture  is  not  untrue  to  the  human  careers 
it  seems  to  represent. 

And  first  there  is  this  graduation,  from  the  gath- 


35°  GRADUATION. 

ering-  of  knowledge  into  dear  opinions.  The  ac- 
cumulation of  knowledge  is  the  schoolroom's  work. 
The  shaping  of  clear  opinions  is  the  work  of  life, 
and  it  is  wonderful  how  many  learners  stop  at  the 
schoolroom's  door  and  never  get  beyond  its 
pleasant  flower-twined  gateway  all  their  lives. 
Opinions  are  good  for  nothing  unless  they  are  built 
out  of  good  materials.  These  materials  are  what 
you  get  from  books,  and  history,  and  newspapers, 
and  nature,  and  society.  And  so  this  is  the  first 
graduation,  to  be  desired  earnestly  and  slowly 
reached — the  graduation  out  of  mere  knowledge 
into  thoughts  and  opinions.  It  is  the  first  fresh, 
bright,  joyous  breaking  of  the  buried  seed  out  of 
the  cold  ground  of  school  into  the  sunlight  of  life. 

Then  there  is  another  graduation,  namely,  that 
by  which  one  grows  to  true  and  earnest  feeling. 
We  put  this  last,  because  the  feeling  properly 
comes  after  thought  and  action,  as  the  result  of 
knowledge.  There  are,  indeed,  strong  feelings  that 
come  long  before,  but  they  are  apt  to  be  mere 
sentiments,  mere  sentimentalities;  but  when  one  has 
known  much,  and  thought  much,  and  done  much 
duty,  then  come  those  large,  deep  enthusiasms, 
whose  warmth  is  the  very  vital  heat  of  a  large  living 
character;  the  enthusiasms  which  give  us  warmth 
in  all  the  coldness,  and  light  in  all  the  darkness  of 
the  world  we  have  to  walk  through — the  rich,  ripe 
fruit  of  life. 

It  happens  to  some  people  through  some  blun- 
der of  life,  or  through  some  fault  of  temperament, 


GRADUATION.  35  * 

to  have  to  go  through  life  thinking  earnestly  and 
working  faithfully,  and  yet  never  coming  out  into 
the  delight  of  warm  and  hearty  feeling.  The 
thought  and  work  may  still  be  duties,  however 
dreary ;  they  may  have  to  be  done,  however  coldly ; 
but  if  they  never  go  beyond  themselves,  they  will 
always  be  cold  and  imperfect.  There  is  no  day 
more  bright  in  all  one's  life  that  that  in  which  one 
becomes  conscious  of  this  final  graduation. 

Our  affections  and  our  indignations  are  the  deep- 
est part  of  us.  They  lie,  indeed,  all  through  our 
nature.  When  they  have  got  down  to  their  deepest 
and  are  loving  all  that  is  pure  and  good  and  true 
and  are  hating  what  is  mean  and  false  and  cruel, 
then  their  intensity  comes  out;  then  they  become 
charitable  and  generous  and  give  us  charity  and 
independence;  then  in  their  fullest  use  our  human 
nature  seems  a  glorious  thing.  \Yhen  they  get  to 
their  deepest,  and  love  God  and  hate  all  that  dis- 
honors him,  then  they  have  become  religious,  then 
the  highest  of  all  glories  is  reached,  and  heaven  has 
nothing  to  offer  except  higher  rcoms  of  this  highest 
school  into  which  the  soul  has  graduated  now. 

We  ought  to  press  forward  to  this  highest  gradu- 
ation, to  seek  the  noblest  feelings  and  enthusiasms. 
To  the  soul  that  does  not  shut  them  out  by  frivolity 
or  bitterness,  they  must  come  in,  for  they  are  all 
around  us,  and  when  they  come  in  to  us  then  our 
life  is  very  rich. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  people  find  life  dull  who 
never  think  or  work  or  feel,  who  stop  short  in  the 


35 2  HER  GRANDPA. 

little  they  have  learned  and  let  it  grow  tame  to  them 
in  their  daily  drudgery  with  it.  But  always  to  let 
our  minds  play  upon  what  we  know,  and  to  always 
be  getting  more  use  out  of  it;  always  to  keep  it 
close  upon  our  hearts,  and  so  to  keep  it  always 
warm — this  makes  the  world  seem  very  rich  and 
beautiful  and  fresh,  as  God  meant  that  it  should  be. 


HER  GRANDPA. 

By  CHARLES  D.  STEWART. 

MY  gran'pa  is  a  funny  man, 

He's  Scotch  as  he  can  be; 
I  tries  to  teach  him  all  I  can, 

But  he  can't  talk  like  me; 
I've  told  him  forty  thousand  times, 

But  tain't  a  bit  of  use; 
He  always  says  a  man's  a  "  mon," 

An'  calls  a  house  a  "  hoose." 

He  plays  with  me  'most  every  day, 

And  rides  me  on  his  knee; 
He  took  me  to  a  picnic  once, 

And  dressed  up  just  like  me. 
He  says  I  am  a  "  bonnie  bairn," 

And  kisses  me,  and  when 
I  asks  him  why  he  can't  talk  right, 

He  says,  "  I  dinna  ken." 


WA  SUIi\G  TON.  353 

But  me  an'  him  has  lots  of  fun, 

He's  such  a  funny  man; 
I  dance  for  him  and  brush  his  hair, 

And  love  him  all  I  can. 
I  calls  him  Anjrew  (that's  his  name). 

And  he  says  I  can't  talk. 
And  then  he  puts  my  plaidie  on 

And  takes  me  for  a  walk. 
I  tells  him  forty  thousand  times, 

But  tain't  a  bit  of  use; 
He  always  says  a  man's  a  "  mon," 

An'  calls  a  house  a  "  hoose." 


WASHINGTON. 

By  ELIZA  COOK,  Poet.    B.  1817,  London,  England  ;  d. 

1889. 

LAND  of  the  west!  though  passing  brief  the  record 

of  thine  age, 
Thou  hast  a  name  that  darkens  all  on  history's  wide 

page! 
Let  all  the  blasts  of  fame  ring  out — thine  shall  be 

loudest  far. 
Let   others   boast   their   satellites — thou    hast   the 

planet  star. 
Thou  hast  a  name  whose  characters  of  light  shall 

ne'er  depart; 
'Tis  stamped  upon  the  dullest  brain,  and  warms  the 

coldest  heart; 


354  WA  SUING  TON. 

A  war-cry  fit  for  any  land  where  freedom's  to  be 
won. 

Land  of  the  west!  it  stands  alone — it  is  thy  Wash- 
ington ! 

Rome  had  its  Caesar,  great  and  brave;  but  stain 

was  on  his  wreath : 
He  lived  the  heartless  conqueror,   and  died  the 

tyrant's  death. 
France  had  its  Eagle;  but  his  wings,  though  lofty 

they  might  soar, 
Were  spread  in  false  ambition's  flight,  and  dipped 

in  murder's  gore. 
Those  hero-gods,  whose  mighty  sway  would  fain 

have  chained  the  waves — 
Who  fleshed  their  blades  with  tiger  zeal,  to  make 

a  world  of  slaves — 
Who,  though  their  kindred  barred  the  path,  still 

fiercely  waded  on — 
Oh,  where  shall  be  their  "  glory  "  by  the  side  of 

Washington? 

.He  fought,  but  not  with  love  of  strife;  he  struck 

but  to  defend; 
And  ere  he  turned  a  people's  foe,  he  sought  to  be 

a  friend. 
He  strove  to  keep  his  country's  right  by  reason's 

gentle  word, 
And  sighed  when  fell  injustice  threw  the  challenge 

— sword  to  sword. 


WASHINGTON.  355 

He  stood  the  firm,  the  calm,  the  wise,  the  patriot 
and  sage; 

He  showed  no  deep,  avenging  hate — no  burst  of 
despot  rage. 

He  stood  for  liberty  and  truth,  and  dauntlessly  led 
on, 

Till  shouts  of  victory  gave  forth  the  name  of  Wash- 
ington. 


No  car  of  triumph  bore  him  through  a  city  filled 

with  grief; 
No  groaning  captives  at  the  wheels  proclaimed  him 

victor  chief: 
He  broke  the  gyves  of  slavery  with  strong  and  high 

disdain, 
And  cast  no  scepter  from  the  links  when  he  had 

crushed  the  chain. 

He  saved  his  land,  but  did  not  lay  his  soldier  trap- 
pings down 
To  change  them  for  the  regal  vest,  and  don  a 

kingly  crown; 
Fame  was  too  earnest  in  her  joy — too  proud  of 

such  a  son — 
To  let  a  robe  and  title  mask  a  noble  Washington. 

England,  my  heart  is  truly  thine — my  loved,  my 

native  earth! 
The  land  that  holds  a  mother's  grave,  and  gave  that 

mother  birth! 


356  THE   SPARTANS'   MARCH. 

Oh,  keenly  sad  would  be  the  fate  that  thrust  me 

from  thy  shore 
And  faltering  my  breath,  that  sighed,  "  Farewell 

for  evermore ! " 
But  did  I  meet  such  adverse  lot,  I  would  not  seek 

to  dwell 
Where    olden    heroes    wrought    the    deeds    for 

Homer's  song  to  tell. 
"  Away,  thou  gallant  ship !  "  I'd  cry,  "  and  bear  me 

swiftly  on: 
But  bear  me  from  my  own  fair  land  to  that  of 

Washington !  " 


THE  SPARTANS'  MARCH. 

By  FELICIA  DOROTHEA  HEMANS,  Poet.  B.  1794,  England  ; 
d.  1835,  Ireland. 

"  The  Spartans  used  not  the  trumpet  in  their  march  into 
battle,"  says  Thucydides,  "because  they  wished  not  to  ex- 
cite the  rage  of  their  warriors.  Their  charging  step  was 
made  to  the  Dorian  mood  of  flutes  and  soft  recorders.  The 
valor  of  a  Spartan  was  too  highly  tempered  to  require  a 
stunning  or  a  rousing  impulse.  His  spirit  was  like  a  steed 
too  proud  for  the  spur." 

'TWAS  morn  upon  the  Grecian  hills, 
Where  peasants  dress'd  the  vines; 

Sunlight  was  on  Cithseron's  rills, 
Arcadia's  rocks  and  pines. 

And  brightly,  through  his  reeds  and  flowers, 

Eurotas  wander'd  by, 
When  a  sound  arose  from  Sparta's  towers 

Of  solemn  harmony. 


THE    SPARTANS'   MARCH.  357 

Was  it  the  hunter's  choral  strain 
To  the  woodland-goddess  pour'd? 

Did  virgin  hands  in  Pallas'  fane 
Strike  the  full  sounding  chord? 

But  helms  were  glancing  on  the  stream, 

Spears  ranged  in  close  array, 
And  shields  flung  back  a  glorious  beam 

To  the  morn  of  a  fearful  day ! 

And  the  mountain-echoes  of  the  land 
S well'd  through  the  deep  blue  sky; 

While  to  soft  strains  moved  forth  a  band 
Of  men  that  moved  to  die. 

They  march'd  not  with  the  trumpet's  blast, 

Nor  bade  the  horn  peal  out, 
And  the  laurel  groves,  as  on  they  pass'd, 

Rung  with  no  battle  shout! 

They  asked  no  clarion's  voice  to  fire 

Their  souls  with  impulse  high; 
But  the  Dorian  reed  and  the  Spartan  lyre 

For  the  sons  of  liberty ! 

And  still  sweet  flutes  their  path  around 

Sent  forth  ^olian  breath ; 
They  needed  not  a  sterner  sound 

To  marshal  them  for  death! 


3  5  8  NEB  UCHA  DNEZZA  R. 

So  moved  they  calmly  to  their  field, 

Thence  never  to  return, 
Save  bearing  back  the  Spartan  shield, 

Or  on  it  proudly  borne! 


NEBUCHADNEZZAR. 

By  IRWIN  RUSSELL. 

You,  Nebuchadnezzah,  whoa,  sah! 
Whar  is  you  tryin'  to  go,  sah? 
I'd  hab  you  for  to  know,  sah, 

I's  a  holdin'  ob  de  lines. 
You  better  stop  dat  prancin'; 
You's  pow'ful  fond  ob  dancin', 
But  I'll  bet  my  yeah's  advancin' 

Dat  I'll  cure  you  ob  your  shines. 

Look  heah,  mule!     Better  min'  out- 
Fust  t'ing  you  know  you'll  fin'  out 
How  quick  I'll  wear  dis  line  out 

On  your  ugly,  stubbo'n  back. 
You  needn't  try  to  steal  up 
An'  lif  dat  precious  heel  up; 
You's  got  to  plow  dis  fiel'  up, 

You  has,  sah,  for  a  fac'. 

Dar,  dat's  de  way  to  do  it ! 
He's  comin'  right  down  to  it; 
Jes'  watch  him  plowin'  t'roo  it! 
Dis  nigger  aint  no  fool. 


NEBUCHADNEZZAR.  359 

Some  folks  dey  would  'a'  beat  him; 
Now,  dat  would  only  heat  him — 
I  know  jes'  how  to  treat  him, 
You  mus'  reason  wid  a  mule. 

He  minds  me  like  a  nigger. 
If  he  was  only  bigger 
He'd  fotch  a  mighty  figger, 

He  would,  I  tell  you!     Yes,  sah! 
See  how  he  keeps  a  clickin'! 
He's  as  gentle  as  a  chicken, 
An'  nebber  t'inks  o'  kickin' — 

Whoa,  dar!     Nebuchadnezzah ! 

Is  dis  heah  me,  or  not  me? 
Or  is  de  debbil  got  me? 
Was  dat  a  cannon  shot  me? 

Hab  I  laid  heah  mor'n  a  week? 
Dat  mule  do  kick  amazin'! 
De  beast  was  sp'iled  in  raisin' — 
But  now  I  'spect  he's  grazin' 

On  de  oder  side  de  creek. 


360          THE   COLLEGE  AND    THE  NATION. 


THE  COLLEGE  AND  THE  NATION.      • 

By  GROVER  CLEVELAND,  Statesman,  ex-Governor  of  New 
York,  ex-President  of  the  United  States.  B.  1837,  New 
Jersey  ;  resides  in  Princeton,  N.  J. 

An  address  delivered  at  Princeton,  October  22,  1896,  at 
the  Sesqui-centennial  celebration  of  the  College,  on  which 
occasion  Princeton  became  a  university. 

OBVIOUSLY  a  government  resting  upon  the  will 
and  universal  suffrage  of  the  people  has  no  anchor- 
age except  in  the  people's  intelligence.  While  the 
advantages  of  a  collegiate  education  are  by  no 
means  necessary  to  good  citizenship,  yet  the  col- 
lege graduate,  found  everywhere,  cannot  smother 
his  opportunities  to  teach  his  fellow-countrymen 
and  influence  them  for  good,  nor  hide  his  talents  in 
a  napkin,  without  recreancy  to  a  trust. 

In  a  nation  like  ours,  charged  with  the  care  of 
numerous  and  widely  varied  interests,  a  spirit  of 
conservatism  and  toleration  is  absolutely  essential. 
A  collegiate  training,  the  study  of  principles  un- 
vexed  by  distracting  and  misleading  influences,  and 
a  correct  apprehension  of  the  theories  upon  which 
our  republic  is  established,  ought  to  constitute  the 
college  graduate  a  constant  monitor,  warning 
against  popular  rashness  and  excess. 

The  character  of  our  institutions  and  our  national 
self-interest  require  that  a  feeling  of  sincere 
brotherhood  and  a  disposition  to  unite  in  mutual 
endeavor  should  pervade  our  people.  Our  scheme 
of  government  in  its  beginning  was  based  upon 
this  sentiment,  and  its  interruption  has  never  failed 


THE   COLLEGE  AND    THE  NATION.         361 

and  can  never  fail  to  grievously  menace  the  national 
health.  Who  can  better  caution  against  passion 
and  bitterness  than  those  who  know  by  thought 
and  study  their  baneful  consequences,  and  who  are 
themselves  within  the  noble  brotherhood  of  higher 
education? 

The  activity  of  our  people  and  their  restless  de- 
sire to  gather  to  themselves  especial  benefits  and 
advantages  lead  to  the  growth  of  an  unconfessed 
tendency  to  regard  their  Government  as  the  giver 
of  private  gifts,  and  to  look  upon  the  agencies  for 
its  administration  as  the  distributors  of  official 
places  and  preferment.  Those  who  in  university 
or  college  have  had  an  opportunity  to  study  the 
mission  of  our  institutions,  and  who,  in  the  light  of 
history,  have  learned  the  danger  to  a  people  of  their 
neglect  of  the  patriotic  care  they  owe  the  national 
life  intrusted  to  their  keeping,  should  be  well  fitted 
to  constantly  admonish  their  fellow-citizens  that 
the  usefulness  and  beneficence  of  their  plan  of  gov- 
ernment can  only  be  preserved  through  their  un- 
selfish and  loving  support,  and  their  contented 
willingness  to  accept  in  full  return  the  peace,  pro- 
tection, and  opportunity  which  it  impartially  be- 
stows. 

Not  more  surely  do  the  rules  of  honesty  and 
good  faith  fix  the  standard  of  individual  character 
in  a  community  than  do  these  same  rules  determine 
the  character  and  standing  of  a  nation  in  the  world 
of  civilization.  Neither  the  glitter  of  its  power, 
nor  the  tinsel  of  its  commercial  prosperity,  nor  the 


362         THE  LITTLE  GIKL  THA  T  GRE  W  UP. 

gaudy  show  of  its  people's  wealth,  can  conceal  the 
cankering  rust  of  national  dishonesty  and  cover  the 
meanness  of  national  bad  faith.  A  constant  stream 
of  thoughtful,  educated  men  should  come  from  our 
universities  and  colleges  preaching  national  honor 
and  integrity,  and  teaching  that  a  belief  in  the 
necessity  of  national  obedience  to  the  laws  of  God 
is  not  born  of  superstition. 

I  would  have  the  influence  of  these  institutions 
on  the  side  of  religion  and  morality.  I  would  have 
those  they  send  out  among  the  people  not  ashamed 
to  acknowledge  God,  and  to  proclaim  his  interpo- 
sition in  the  affairs  of  men,  enjoining  such  obedi- 
ence to  his  laws  as  makes  manifest  the  path  of 
national  perpetuity  and  prosperity. 


THE  LITTLE  GIRL  THAT  GREW  UP. 
ANONYMOUS.     From  Ziori's  Herald. 

SHE  was  sitting  up  straight  in  a  straight-backed 

chair. 

There  wasn't  a  snarl  in  her  shining  hair; 
There  wasn't  a  speck  on  her  dainty  dress, 
And  her  rosy  face  was  full  of  distress. 

When  I  drew  near  to  this  maiden  fair, 
She  suddenly  rumpled  her  shining  hair, 
And  dropping  down  "  in  a  heap  "  on  the  floor 
Uplifted  her  voice  in  a  wail  most  sore. 


THE  LITTLE  GIRL   THAT  GREW  UP.        363 

"  Now,  what  is  the  matter,  my  pretty  maid?" 

"  I  am  all  grown  up,"  she  dolefully  said, 

"  And    I'm   lonesome — as   lonesome   as   lonesome 

can  be — 
For  Humpty  Dumpty  and  Riddle-me-ree. 

"  There's  Little  Boy  Blue,  who  used  to  creep 
Under  our  haystack  and  fall  asleep, 
He  isn't  my  friend  since  mother  dear 
'  Did  up  '  my  hair  in  this  twist  so  queer. 

"  And  the  dog  and  the  fiddle,  they  left  me,  too, 

\Yhen  the  baby  into  a  woman  grew. 

The  dish  has  hidden  away  with  the  spoon, 

And  the  cow  has  stayed  at  the  back  of  the  moon. 

"  The  little  old  woman  who  swept  the  sky 
Is  caught  in  her  cobwebs  high  and  dry, 
And  Jack  and  his  beanstalk  I  cannot  find 
Since  I  began  to  improve  my  mind. 

"  I  wouldn't  be  scared — not  a  single  mite — 

If  the  bugaboo  I  should  meet  to-night. 

The  bogy  man  I'd  be  glad  to  ree, 

But  they'll  never — no,  never — come  back  to  me. 

"  I  watched  in  the  garden  last  night  at  dark 
"A  fairy  favor  to  find,  but — hark! 
My  mother  is  calling — don't  you  hear? — 
'  Young  ladies  don't  sit  on  the  floor,  my  dear.'  " 


364          THE  BATTLE  OF 


THE  BATTLE  OF  GERMANTOWN. 

By  GEORGE  LIPPARD,  Author.  B.  1822,  Pennsylvania  ;  d. 
1854,  Philadelphia. 

A  PAUSE  in  the  din  of  battle!  The  denizens  of 
Mount  Airy  and  Chestnut  Hill  come  crowding  to 
their  doors  and  windows;  the  hilly  streets  are  oc- 
cupied by  anxious  groups  of  people,  who  con- 
verse in  low  and  whispered  tones,  with  hurried 
gestures,  and  looks  of  surprise  and  fear.  See  yon- 
der group  clustered  by  the  roadside:  the  gray- 
haired  man,  with  his  ear  inclined  intently  toward 
Germantown,  his  hands  outspread,  and  his  trem- 
bling form  bent  with  age;  the  maiden,  fair-cheeked, 
red-lipped,  and  blooming,  clad  in  the  peasant 
costume;  the  matron,  calm,  self-possessed  and 
placid;  the  boy,  with  the  light  flaxen  hair,  the 
ruddy  cheeks,  the  merry  blue  eyes; — rail  standing 
silent  and  motionless,  and  listening,  as  with  a  com- 
mon impulse,  for  the  first  news  of  the  battle. 

There  is  a  strange  silence  upon  the  air.  A  mo- 
ment ago,  and  far-off  shouts  broke  upon  the  ear, 
mingling  with  the  thunder  of  cannon,  and  the 
shrieks  of  the  terrible  musketry;  the  earth  seems 
to  tremble,  and  far  around  the  wide  horizon  is  agi- 
tated by  a  thousand  echoes.  Now  the  scene  is  still 
as  midnight.  Not  a  sound,  not  a  shout,  not  a  dis- 
tant hurrah.  The  anxiety  of  the  group  upon  the 
hill  becomes  absorbing  and  painful.  Looks  of 
wonder,  at  the  sudden  pause  of  the  battle,  flit  from 


THE   BATTLE   OF  GERMANTOWN.  365 

face  to  face,  and  then  low  whispers  are  heard,  and 
then  comes  another  moment  of  fearful  suspense. 
It  is  followed  by  a  wild,  rushing  sound  to  the  south, 
like  the  shrieks  of  the  ocean  waves,  as  they  fill  the 
hold  of  the  foundering  ship,  while  it  sinks  far  into 
the  loneliness  of  the  seas. 

Then  a  pause,  and  again  that  unknown  sound, 
and  then  the  tramp  of  ten  thousand  footsteps 
mingled  with  a  wild  and  indistinct  murmur. 
Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  the  air  is  filled  with  a  sound, 
and  then  distinct  voices  break  upon  the  air,  and  the 
clatter  is  borne  upon  the  breeze. 

The  boy  turns  to  his  mother,  and  asks  her  who 
has  gained  the  day.  Every  heart  feels  vividly  that 
the  battle  is  now  over,  that  the  account  of  blood  is 
near  its  close,  that  the  appeal  to  the  God  of  battles 
has  been  made.  The  mother  turns  her  tearful  eyes 
to  the  south ;  she  cannot  answer  the  question.  The 
old  man,  awakened  from  a  reverie,  turns  suddenly 
to  the  maiden,  and  clasps  her  arm  with  his  trem- 
bling hands.  His  lips  move,  but  his  tongue  is 
unable  to  syllable  a  sound.  He  flings  a  trembling 
hand  southward,  and  speaks  his  question  with  the 
gesture  of  age.  The  battle — the  battle — how  goes 
the  battle?  As  he  makes  the  gesture,  the  figure  of 
a  soldier  is  seen  rushing  from  the  mist  in  the  valley 
below;  he  comes  speeding  round  the  bend  of  the 
road,  he  ascends  the  hill,  but  his  steps  totter  and  he 
staggers  to  and  fro  like  a  drunken  man.  He  bears 
a  burden  on  his  shoulders — is  it  the  plunder  of  the 
fight?  Is  it  the  spoil  gathered  from  the  ranks  of 


366  THE   BATTLE   OF  GERMANTOWN. 

the  dead?  No! — no!  He  bears  an  aged  man  on 
his  shoulders. 

Both  are  clad  in  the  blue  hunting  shirt,  torn  and 
tattered  and  stained  with  blood,  it  is  true,  but  still 
you  can  recognize  the  uniform  of  the  Revolution. 
The  tottering  soldier  nears  the  group,  he  lays  the 
aged  veteran  down  by  the  roadside,  and  then  looks 
around  with  a  ghastly  face  and  a  rolling  eye. 
There  is  blood  dripping  from  his  attire,  his  face  is 
begrimed  with  powder  and  spotted  with  crimson 
drops.  He  glances  wildly  around,  and  then,  kneel- 
ing on  the  sod,  he  takes  the  hand  of  the  aged  man 
in  his  own,  and  raises  his  head  upon  his  knee. 

The  battle — the  battle — how  goes  the  battle? 
The  group  cluster  around  as  they  ask  the  question. 
The  young  Continental  makes  no  reply,  but,  gazing 
upon  the  face  of  the  dying  veteran,  wipes  the 
beaded  drops  of  blood  from  his  forehead. 

"  Comrade!  "  shrieks  the  veteran,  "  raise  me  on 
my  feet,  and  wipe  the  blood  from  my  eyes.  I 
would  see  him  once  again."  He  is  raised  upon  his 
feet,  and  the  blood  is  wiped  from  his  eyes.  "  I 
see — it  is  he — it  is  Washington!  Yonder — yonder 
I  see  his  sword — and  Anthony  Wayne — raise  me 
higher,  comrade — all  is  getting  dark — I  would  see 
Mad  Anthony!  Lift  me,  comrade — higher,  higher 
— I  see  him — I  see  Mad  Anthony!  Wipe  the  blood 
from  my  eyes,  comrade,  for  it  darkens  my  sight; 
it  is  dark — it  is  dark!  " 

And  the  young  soldier  held  in  his  arms  a  lifeless 
corpse.  The  old  veteran  was  dead.  He  had 


THE  BATTLE  Or  GER.MAXTOWN.        367 

fought  his  last  fight,  fired  his  last  shot,  shouted  the 
name  of  Mad  Anthony  for  the  last  time;  and  yet 
his  withered  hand  clenched,  with  the  tightness  of 
death,  the  broken  bayonet. 

The  battle — the  battle — how  goes  the  battle? 
As  the  thrilling  question  again  rung  in  his  ears,  the 
young  Continental  turned  to  the  group,  smiled 
ghastly,  and  then  flung  his  wounded  arm  to  the 
south.  "Lost!"  he  shrieked,  and  rushed  on  his 
way  like  one  bereft  of  his  senses.  He  had  not  gone 
ten  steps  when  he  bit  the  dust  of  the  roadside  and 
lay  extended  in  the  face  of  day,  a  lifeless  corpse. 

So  they  died;  the  young  hero  and  the  aged  vet- 
eran, children  of  the  Land  of  Penn!  So  died  thou- 
sands of  their  brethren  throughout  the  Continent 
— Quebec  and  Saratoga,  Camden  and  Bunker  Hill, 
to  this  hour  retain  their  bones! 

Nameless  and  unhonored,  the  "  Poor  Men 
Heroes "  of  Pennsylvania  sleep  the  last  slumber 
on  every  battlefield  of  the  Revolution.  In  every 
spear  of  the  grass  that  grows  on  our  battlefields, 
in  every  wild  flower  that  blooms  above  the  dead  of 
the  Revolution,  you  read  the  quiet  heroism  of  the 
children  of  the  Land  of  Penn. 


368  THE  RELIEF  OF  LUCK  NOW. 


THE   RELIEF   OF    LUCKNOW. 

By  ROBERT  TRAILL  S PENCE  LOWELL,   Clergyman,  Poet, 
Author.     B.  1816,  Massachusetts ;  d.  1891. 

OH!  that  last  day  in  Lucknow  fort; 

We  knew  that  it  was  the  last,     . 
That  the  enemy's  mines  had  crept  surely  in, 

And  that  the  end  was  coming  fast. 

To  yield  to  that  foe  meant  worse  than  death, 
And  the  men  and  we  all  worked  on ; 

It  was  one  day  more  of  smoke  and  roar, 
And  then  it  would  all  be  done. 

There  was  one  of  us,  a  corporal's  wife, 

A  fair  young  gentle  thing, 
Wasted  with  fever  in  the  siege, 

And  her  mind  was  wandering. 

She  lay  on  the  ground,  in  her  Scottish  plaid, 

And  I  took  her  head  on  my  knee; 
"  When  my  father  comes  hame  frae  the  pleugh," 
she  said, 

"  Oh !  please  then  waken  me." 

She  slept  like  a  child  on  her  father's  floor, 

In  the  flecking  of  woodbine  shade, 
When  the  house  dog  sprawls  by  the  half-open  door, 

And  the  mother's  wheel  is  stayed. 


THE   RELIEF  OF  LUCK  NOW.  369 

It  was  smoke  and  roar  and  powder  stench, 

And  hopeless  waiting  for  death; 
But  the  soldier's  wife,  like  a  full  tired  child, 

Seemed  scarce  to  draw  her  breath. 

I  sank  to  sleep  and  I  had  my  dream 

Of  an  English  village  lane 
And  wall  and  garden — till  a  sudden  scream 

Brought  me  back  to  the  real  again. 

There  Jessie  Brown  stood  listening, 

And  then  a  broad  gladness  broke 
All  over  her  face,  and  she  took  my  hand, 

And  drew  me  near  and  spoke : 

"  The  Highlanders!     Oh,  dinna  ye  hear 

The  slogan  far  awa'? 
The  McGregor's?    Ah!  I  ken  it  weel; 

It  is  the  grandest  of  them  a'. 

"  God  bless  the  bonny  Highlanders; 

We're  saved !  we're  saved !  "  she  cried ; 
And  fell  on  her  knees,  and  thanks  to  God 

Poured  forth  like  a  full  flood  tide. 


Along  the  battle  line  her  cry 

Had  fallen  among  the  men ; 
And  they  started ;  for  they  were  there  to  die — 

Was  life  so  near  them  then? 


37°  THE  RELIEF  OF  LUCK  NOW. 

They  listened,  for  life,  and  the  rattling  fire 

Far  off,  and  the  far-off  roar 
Were  all, — and  the  colonel  shook  his  head, 

And  they  turned  to  their  guns  once  more. 

Then  Jessie  said,  "  The  slogan's  dune, 

But  can  ye  no  hear  them,  noo? 
The  Campbells  are  coming!     It's  nae  a  dream, 

Our  succors  hae  broken  through ! " 

We  heard  the  roar  and  the  rattle  afar, 
But  the  pipers  we  could  not  hear; 

So  the  men  plied  their  work  of  hopeless  war, 
And  knew  that  the  end  was  near. 

It  was  not  long  ere  it  must  be  heard, 

A  shrilling,  ceaseless  sound; 
It  was  no  noise  of  the  strife  afar, 

Or  the  sappers  underground. 

It  was  the  pipe  of  the  Highlanders, 
And  now  they  played  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "; 

It  came  to  our  men  like  the  voice  of  God; 
And  they  shouted  along  the  line. 

And  they  wept  and  shook  each  other's  hands, 
And  the  women  sobbed  in  a  crowd ; 

And  everyone  knelt  down  where  we  stood, 
And  we  all  thanked  God  aloud. 


A    LEGEND   OF  BREGENZ.  37  * 

That  happy  day,  when  we  welcomed  them  in, 

Our  men  put  Jessie  first; 
And  the  general  took  her  hand;  and  cheers 

From  the  men  like  a  volley  burst. 

And  the  pipers'  ribbons  and  tartan  streamed, 
Marching  round  and  round  our  line; 

And  our  joyful  cheers  were  broken  with  tears, 
As  the  pipers  played  "  Auld  Lang  Syne." 


A   LEGEND   OF   BREGENZ. 

By  ADELAIDE  ANNE  PROCTER,  Poet.     B.  1825,  England; 
d.  1864. 

GIRT  round  with  rugged  mountains 

The  fair  Lake  Constance  lies; 
In  her  blue  heart  reflected 

Shine  back  the  starry  skies; 
And,  watching  each  white  cloudlet 

Float  silently  and  slow. 
You  think  a  piece  of  Heaven 

Lies  on  our  earth  below ! 

Midnight  is  there:  and  Silence, 

Enthroned  in  heaven,  looks  down 
Upon  her  own  calm  mirror, 

Upon  a  sleeping  town : 
For  Bregenz,  that  quaint  city 

LTpon  the  Tyrol  shore, 
Has  stood  above  Lake  Constance 

A  thousand  years  and  more. 


37 2  A    LEGEND   OF  BREGENZ. 

Her  battlements  and  towers, 

From  off  their  rocky  steep, 
Have  cast  their  trembling  shadow 

For  ages  on  the  deep; 
Mountain,  and  lake,  and  valley, 

A  sacred  legend  know, 
Of  how  the  town  was  saved,  one  night, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

Far  from  her  home  and  kindred, 

A  Tyrol  maid  had  fled, 
To  serve  in  the  Swiss  valleys, 

And  toil  for  daily  bread; 
And  every  year  that  fleeted 

So  silently  and  fast, 
Seemed  to  bear  farther  from  her 

The  memory  of  the  Past. 

She  spoke  no  more  of  Bregenz, 

With  longing  and  with  tears: 
Her  Tyrol  home  seemed  faded 

In  a  deep  mist  of  years; 
She  heeded  not  the  rumors 

Of  Austrian  war  and  strife ; 
Each  day  she  rose  contented, 

To  the  calm  toils  of  life. 

.  .  .  .  • 

And  so  she  dwelt:  the  valley 

More  peaceful  year  by  year; 
When  suddenly  strange  portents, 

Of  some  great  deed  seemed  near. 


A   LEGEND   OF  BREGENZ.  373 

The  golden  corn  was  bending 

Upon  its  fragile  stalk, 
While  farmers,  heedless  of  their  fields, 

Paced  up  and  down  in  talk. 

The  men  seemed  stern  and  altered, 

With  looks  cast  on  the  ground; 
With  anxious  faces,  one  by  one, 

The  women  gathered  round; 
All  talk  of  flax,  or  spinning, 

Or  work,  was  put  away ; 
The  very  children  seemed  afraid 

To  go  alone  to  play. 

One  day,  out  in  the  meadow 

With  strangers  from  the  town, 
Some  secret  plan  discussing, 

The  men  walked  up  and  down. 
Yet,  now  and  then  seemed  watching 

A  strange  uncertain  gleam, 
That  looked  like  lances  'mid  the  trees 

That  stood  below  the  stream. 

At  eve  they  all  assembled, 

Then  care  and  doubt  were  fled; 
With  jovial  laugh  they  feasted; 

The  board  was  nobly  spread. 
The  elder  of  the  village 

Rose  up,  his  glass  in  hand. 
And  cried,  "  We  drink  the  downfall 

Of  an  accursed  land! 


374  A   LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ. 

"  The  night  is  growing  darker, 

Ere  one  more  day  is  flown, 
Bregenz,  our  foeman's  stronghold, 

Bregenz  shall  be  our  own!  " 
The  women  shrank  in  terror, 

(Yet  Pride,  too,  had  her  part), 
But  one  poor  Tyrol  maiden 

Felt  death  within  her  heart. 

Nothing  she  heard  around  her, 

(Though  shouts  rang  forth  again), 
Gone  were  the  green  Swiss  valleys, 

The  pasture,  and  the  plain; 
Before  her  eyes  one  vision, 

And  in  her  heart  one  cry, 
That  said,  "  Go  forth,  save  Bregenz, 

And  then,  if  need  be,  die!  " 

With  trembling  haste  and  breathless, 

With  noiseless  step  she  sped; 
Horses  and  weary  cattle 

Were  standing  in  the  shed; 
She  loosed  the  strong  white  charger, 

That  fed  from  out  her  hand, 
She  mounted,  and  she  turned  his  head 

Toward  her  native  land. 

"  Faster!  "  she  cries,  "  on  faster!  " 
Eleven  the  church-bells  chime: 

"  Oh,  God,"  she  cries,  "  help  Bregenz, 
And  bring  me  there  in  time!  " 


A    LEGEND   OF  BREGENZ.  375 

But  louder  than  bells'  ringing, 

Or  lowing  of  the  kine, 
Grows  nearer  in  the  midnight 

The  rushing  of  the  Rhine. 

Shall  not  the  roaring  waters 

Their  headlong  gallop  check? 
The  steed  draws  back  in  terror, 

She  leans  upon  his  neck 
To  watch  the  flowing  darkness; 

The  bank  is  high  and  steep ; 
One  pause — he  staggers  forward, 

And  plunges  in  the  deep. 

She  strives  to  pierce  the  blackness, 

And  looser  throws  the  rein ; 
Her  steed  must  breast  the  waters 

That  dash  above  his  mane. 
How  gallantly,  how  nobly, 

He  struggles  through  the  foam, 
And  see — in  the  far  distance, 

Shine  out  the  lights  of  home! 

Up  the  steep  banks  he  bears  her, 

And  now,  they  rush  again 
Toward  the  heights  of  Bregenz, 

That  tower  above  the  plain. 
They  reached  the  gate  of  Bregenz, 

Just  as  the  midnight  rings, 
And  out  come  serf  and  soldier 

To  meet  the  news  she  brings. 


376  THE   GLORIOUS  CONSTITUTION. 

Bregenz  is  saved!     Ere  daylight 

Her  battlements  are  manned; 
Defiance  greets  the  army 

That  marches  on  the  land. 
And  if  to  deeds  heroic 

Should  endless  fame  be  paid, 
Bregenz  does  well  to  honor 

The  noble  Tyrol  maid. 

And  when,  to  guard  old  Bregenz, 

By  gateway,  street,  and  tower, 
The  warder  paces  all  night  long, 

And  calls  each  passing  hour; 
"  Nine,"  "  ten,"  "  eleven,"  he  cries  aloud, 

And  then  (oh,  crown  of  Fame!) 
When  midnight  pauses  in  the  skies, 

He  calls  the  maiden's  name! 


THE    GLORIOUS  CONSTITUTION. 

By  DANIEL  WEBSTER,  Jurist,  Statesman,  Orator.  B.  1782, 
New  Hampshire  ;  lived  in  Massachusetts  after  1804,  and  in 
Washington,  D.  C. ;  d.  1852,  Massachusetts. 

THE  benefits  of  the  Constitution  are  not  exclu- 
sive. What  has  it  left  undone,  which  any  govern- 
ment could  do,  for  the  whole  country?  In  what 
condition  has  it  placed  us?  Where  do  we  now 
stand?  Are  we  elevated,  or  degraded  by  its  oper- 
ation? What  is  our  condition,  under  its  influence, 


THE  GLORIOUS  CONSTITUTION.  377 

at  the  very  moment  when  some  talk  of  arresting  its 
power  and  breaking  its  unity?  Do  we  not  feel  our- 
selves on  an  eminence?  Do  we  not  challenge  the 
respect  of  the  whole  world?  What  has  placed  us 
thus  high?  What  has  given  us  this  just  pride? 
WThat  else  is  it  but  the  unrestrained  and  free 
operation  of  that  same  Federal  Constitution,  which 
it  has  been  proposed  now  to  hamper  and  manacle 
and  nullify?  Who  is  there  among  us,  that,  should 
he  find  himself  on  any  spot  of  the  earth  where  hu- 
man beings  exist,  and  where  the  existence  of  other 
nations  is  known,  would  not  be  proud  to  say,  I  am 
an  American?  I  am  a  countryman  of  Washing- 
ton? I  am  a  citizen  of  that  republic,  which, 
although  it  has  suddenly  sprung  up,  yet  there  are 
none  on  the  globe  who  have  ears  to  hear,  and  have 
not  heard  of  it;  who  have  eyes  to  see,  and  have  not 
read  of  it;  who  know  anything,  and  yet  do  not 
know  of  its  existence  and  its  glory?  Let  me  now 
reverse  the  picture.  Let  me  ask  who  is  there 
among  us,  if  he  were  to  be  found  to-morrow  in 
one  of  the  civilized  countries  of  Europe,  and  were 
there  to  learn  that  this  goodly  form  of  govern- 
ment had  been  overthrown — that  the  United 
States  were  no  longer  united — that  a  death-blow 
had  been  struck  upon  their  bond  of  union — 
that  they  themselves  had  destroyed  their  chief  good 
and  their  chief  honor — who  is  there,  whose  heart 
would  not  sink  within  him?  Who  is  there,  who 
would  not  cover  his  face  for  very  shame? 

At  this  very  moment  our  country  is  a  general 


3?8  THE  GLORIOUS  CONSTITUTION. 

refuge  for  the  distressed  and  the  persecuted  of 
other  nations.  Whoever  is  in  affliction  from 
political  occurrences  in  his  own  country  looks 
here  for  shelter.  Whether  he  be  a  republican,  fly- 
ing from  the  oppression  of  thrones — or  whether 
he  be  monarch  or  monarchist,  flying  from  thrones 
that  crumble  and  fall  under  or  around  him — he 
feels  equal  assurance  that  if  he  get  foothold  on  our 
soil,  his  person  is  safe,  and  his  rights  will  be 
respected. 

And  who  will  venture  to  say  that,  in  any  govern- 
ment now  existing  in  the  world,  there  is  greater 
security  for  persons  or  property  than  in  that  of  the 
United  States?  We  have  tried  these  popular  in- 
stitutions in  times  of  great  excitement  and  commo- 
tion; and  they  have  stood  substantially  firm  and 
steady,  while  the  fountains  of  the  great  deep  have 
been  elsewhere  broken  up;  while  thrones,  resting 
on  ages  of  prescription,  have  tottered  and  fallen; 
and  while  in  other  countries  the  earthquake  of  un- 
restrained popular  commotion  has  swallowed  up  all 
law  and  all  liberty  and  all  right,  together.  Our 
government  has  been  tried  in  peace,  and  it  has 
been  tried  in  war,  and  has  proved  itself  fit  for  both. 
It  has  been  assailed  from  without,  and  it  has  suc- 
cessfully resisted  the  shock;  it  has  been  disturbed 
within,  and  it  has  effectually  quieted  the  disturb- 
ance. It  can  stand  trial — it  can  stand  assault — it 
can  stand  adversity — it  can  stand  everything  but  the 
marring  of  its  own  beauty  and  the  weakening  of  its 
own  strength.  It  can  stand  everything  but  the 


THE  NIGHT    WATCH.  379 

effects  of  our  own  rashness  and  our  own  folly.  It 
can  stand  everything  but  disorganization,  disunion, 
and  nullification. 


THE  NIGHT  WATCH. 

Bv  FRANC.OIS  EDOUARD  JOACHIM  COPPEE,  Poet.  B.  1842, 
France. 

The  scene  is  a  chateau  in  Paris  during  the  German 
siege.  A  wounded  German  officer  lying  on  a  bed.  Attend- 
ing him  the  daughter  of  the  house,  Irene  de  Grandfief, 
whose  lover,  the  Viscount  Roger,  is  with  the  French  army 
at  Metz.  He  wears  a  gold  medallion  on  his  breast  contain- 
ing the  lock  of  hair  Irene  gave  him  at  parting. 

THE  officer  at  last, 
Wonder  and  gratitude  upon  his  face, 
Sank  down  among  the  pillows  deftly  laid  as  one 
asleep. 

Evening  came, 

Bringing  the  doctor.     When  he  saw  his  patient, 
A  strange  expression  flitted  o'er  his  face, 
As  to  himself  he  muttered:  "Yes;  flushed  cheek; 
Pulse  beating  much  too  high.     Phew!  a  bad  night; 
Fever,  delirium,  and  the  rest  that  follows!  " — 
"  But  will  he  die?  "  with  tremor  on  her  lip 
Irene  asked. 

"  Who  knows?     If  possible, 
We  must  arrest  the  fever.     This  prescription 
Oft  succeeds.     But  someone  must  take  note 
Of  the  oncoming  fits;  must  watch  till  morn, 
And  tend  him  closely." 

"  Doctor,  I  am  here." 


380  TH£  NIGHT   WATCtf. 

"  Not  you,  young  lady !     Service  such  as  this 
One  of  your  valets  can " 

"  No,  doctor,  no! 

Roger  perchance  may  be  a  prisoner  yonder, 
Hurt,  ill.     If  he  such  tending  should  require 
As  does  this  officer,  I  would  he  had 
A  gentle  lady  for  his  nurse." 

"  So  be  it, 
You  will  keep  watch,  then,  through  the   night 

The  fever 

Must  not  take  hold,  or  he  will  straightway  die. 
Give  him  the  potion  four  times  every  hour. 
I  will  return  to  judge  of  its  effects 
At  daylight."     Then  he  went  his  way. 

Scarcely  a  minute  had  she  been  in  charge 
When  the  Bavarian,  to  Irene  turning,  said: 
"  This  doctor  thought  I  was  asleep ; 
But  I  heard  every  word.     I  thank  you,  lady; 
I  thank  you  from  my  very  inmost  heart — 
Less  for  myself  than  for  her  sake,  to  whom 
You  would  restore  me,  and  who  there  at  home 
Awaits  me." 

"  Hush!     Sleep  if  you  can. 
Do  not  excite  yourself.     Your  life  depends 
On  perfect  quiet." 

"  No,  no! 

I  must  at  once  unload  me  of  a  secret 
That  weighs  upon  me.     I  promise  made; 


THE  NIGHT    WATCH.  3Sl 

And  I  would  keep  it.     Death  may  be  at  hand." 
"  Speak,  then,"  Irene  said,  "  and  ease  your  soul." 
"  It  was  last  month,  by  Metz;  'twas  my  ill  fate 
To  kill  a  Frenchman." 

She  turned  pale,  and  lowered 
The  lamplight  to  conceal  it.     He  continued: 
"  We  were  sent  forward  to  surprise  a  cottage. 
I  drove  my  saber 

Into  the  soldier's  back  who  sentry  stood 
Before  the  door.     He  fell;  nor  gave  the  alarm. 
We  took  the  cottage,  putting  to  the  sword 
Every  soul  there. 

Disgusted  with  such  carnage, 
Loathing  such  scene,  I  stepped  into  the  air; 
Just  then  the  moon  broke  through  the  clouds  and 

showed  me 

There  at  my  feet  a  soldier  on  the  ground.    'Twas  he, 
The  sentry  whom  my  saber  had  transpierced. 

"  I  stopped,  to  offer  him  a  helping  hand; 
But,  with  choked  voice,  '  It  is  too  late,'  he  said. 
'  I  must  needs  die.  .  .     You  are  an  officer — 
Promise — only  promise 

To  forward  this,'  he  said,  his  fingers  clutching 
A  gold  medallion  hanging  at  his  breast, 

'  To '     Then  his  latest  thought 

Passed   with   his  latest   breath.     The   loved  one's 

name, 

Mistress  or  bride  affianced,  was  not  told    . 
By  that  poor  Frenchman.     Seeing  blazoned  arms 
On  the  medallion,  I  took  charge  of  it, 


382  THE  NIGHT    WATCH. 

Hoping  to  trace  her  at  some  future  day 
Among  the  old  nobility  of  France, 
To  whom  reverts  the  dying  soldier's  gift. 
Here  it  is.     Take  it.     But,  I  pray  you,  swear 
That,  if  death  spares  me  not,  you  will  fulfill 
This  pious  duty  in  my  place." 

Therewith 

He  the  medallion  handed  her;  and  on  it 
Irene  saw  the  Viscount  Roger's  blazoned  arms. 
"I    swear    it,    sir!"    she    murmured.      "Sleep  in 
peace! " 

Solaced  by  having  this  disclosure  made, 
The  wounded  man  sank  down  in  sleep.     Irene, 
Her  bosom  heaving,  and  with  eyes  aflame 
^  hough  tearless  all,  stood  rooted  by  his  side. 
Yes,  he  is  dead,  her  lover!     These  his  arms; 
His  blazon  this;  the  very  blood-stain  his! 

Struck  from  behind, 

Without  or  cry  or  call  for  comrades'  help, 
Roger  was  murdered.     And  there,  sleeping,  lies 
The  man  who  murdered  him !     Yes ;  he  has  boasted 
How  in  the  back  the  traitorous  blow  was  dealt. 
And  now  he  sleeps  with  drowsiness  oppressed, 
Roger's  assassin;  and  'twas  I,  Irene, 
Who  bade  him  sleep  in  peace!     Oh, 
With  what  cruel  mockery,  cruel  and  supreme — 
Must  I  give  him  tendance  here! 
By  this  cpuch  watch  till  dawn  of  day, 
As  loving  mother  by  a  suffering  child, 
So  that  he  die  not! 


THE  NIGHT   WATCH.  383 

And  there  the  flask  upon  the  table  stands 
Charged  with  his  life.     Ha,  waits  it!     Is  not  this 
Beyond  imagination  horrible? 

Oh,  away!  such  point 

Forbearance  reaches  not.     What! — while  it  glitters 
There  in  sheath,  the  very  sword 
Wherewith  the  murderer  struck  the  blow. 
Fierce  impulse  bids  it  from  the  scabbard  leap — 
Shall  I,  in  deference 
To  some  fantastic  notion  that  affects 
Human  respect  and  duty,  shall  I  put 
Repose  and  sleep  and  antidote  and  life 
Into  the  horrible  hand  by  which  all  joy 
Is  ravished  from  me?     Never!     I  will  break 
The  assuaging  flask.  .  .     But  no!  'Twere  needless 

that. 

I  need  but  leave  to  Fate  to  work  the  end. 
Fate,  to  avenge  me,  seems  to  be  at  one 
With  my  resolve.     'Twere  but  to  let  him  die! 
Yes;  there  the  life-preserving  potion  stands; 
But  for  one  hour  might  I  not  fall  asleep? 
"Infamy!" 

And  still  the  struggle  lasted,  till  the  German, 
Roused  by  her  deep  groans  from  his  wandering 

dreams, 

Moved,  ill  at  ease  and  feverish,  begged  for  drink. 
Up  toward  the  antique  cross  in  ivory 
At  the  bed's  head  suspended  on  the  wall 
Irene  raised  the  martyr's  look  sublime; 


34  FERN  SONG. 

Then,  ashen  pale,  poured  out 
The  soothing  draught,  and  with  a  delicate  hand 
Gave  to  the  wounded  man  the  drink  he  asked. 
And  so  wore  on  the  laggard,  pitiless  hours. 

But  when  the  doctor  in  the  morning  came, 

And  saw  her  still  beside  the  officer, 

Tending  him  and  giving  him  his  drink 

With  trembling  fingers,  he  was  much  amazed 

To  see  that,  through  the  dreary  watches  of  the 

night, 
The  raven  locks  that  crowned  her  fair  young  brow 

at  set  of  sun 
By  morning's  dawn  had  turned  to  snowy  white. 


FERN  SONG. 

By  JOHN  B.  TABB. 

DANCE  to  the  beat  of  the  rain,  little  Fern, 
And  spread  out  your  palms  again, 

And  say,  "  Tho'  the  sun 

Hath  my  vesture  spun, 
He  had  labored,  alas!  in  vain, 

But  for  the  shade 

That  the  Cloud  hath  made, 
And  the  gift  of  the  Dew  and  the  Rain." 

Then  laugh  and  upturn 

All  your  fronds,  little  Fern, 
And  rejoice  in  the  beat  of  the  rain! 


MY  RIGHTS.  385 

MY   RIGHTS. 

By  SARAH  CHAUNCEY  WOOLSEY  (Susan  Coolidge),  Poet. 
B.  1835,  Ohio  ;  resides  in  New  Haven,  Conn. 
Copyright  by  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston. 

YES,  God  has  made  me  a  woman, 

And  I  am  content  to  be 
Just  what  he  meant,  not  reaching  out 

For  other  things,  since  he 

Who  knows  me  best  and  loves  me  most  has  ordered 
this  for  me. 

A  woman,  to  live  my  life  out 

In  quiet  womanly  ways, 
Hearing  the  far-off  battle, 

Seeing  as  through  a  haze 

The    crowding,    struggling    world    of    men    fight 
through  their  busy  days. 

I  am  not  strong  or  valiant, 

I  would  not  join  the  fight 
Or  jostle  with  crowds  in  the  highways 

To  sully  my  garments  wrhite ; 
But  I  have  rights  as  a  woman,  and  here  I  claim 
my  right. 

The  right  of  a  rose  to  bloom 

In  its  own  sweet,  separate  way, 
With  none  to  question  the  perfumed  pink 

And  none  to  utter  a  nay 

If  it  reaches  a  root  or  points  a  thorn,  as  even  a  rose 
tree  may. 


3^6  MY  RIGHTS. 

The  right  of  the  lady-birch  to  grow, 

To  grow  as  the  Lord  shall  please, 
By  never  a  sturdy  oak  rebuked, 

Denied  nor  sun  nor  breeze, 

For  all  its  pliant  slenderness,  kin  to  the  stronger 
trees. 

The  right  to  a  life  of  my  own, — 

Not  merely  a  casual  bit 
Of  the  life  of  somebody  else,  flung  out 

That,  taking  hold  of  it, 
I  may  stand  as  a  cipher  does  after  a  numeral  writ 

The  right  to  gather  and  glean 

What  food  I  need  and  can 
From  the  garnered  store  of  knowledge 

Which  man  has  heaped  for  man, 
Taking  with  free  hands  freely  and  after  an  ordered 
plan. 

The  right — ah,  best  and  sweetest! — 

To  stand  all  undismayed 
Whenever  sorrow  or  want  or  sin 

Call  for  a  woman's  aid, 

With  none  to  cavil  or  question,  by  never  a  look 
gainsaid. 

I  do  not  ask  for  a  ballot ; 

Though  very  life  were  at  stake, 
I  would  beg  for  the  nobler  justice 

That  men  for  manhood's  sake 

Should  give  ungrudgingly,  nor  withhold  till  I  must 
fight  and  take. 


PATRIOT  SONS  OF  PATRIOT  SIRES.        387 

The  fleet  foot  and  the  feeble  foot 

Both  seek  the  self-same  goal, 
The  weakest  soldier's  name  is  writ 

On  the  great  army-roll, 

And  God,  who  made  man's  body  strong,  made  too 
the  woman's  soul. 


PATRIOT  SONS   OF   PATRIOT  SIRES. 

The  following  poem  was  written  by  Dr.  SAMUEL  FRANCIS 
SMITH,  the  author  of  our  national  hymn,  "  America." 

Dr.  Smith  was  born  in  Boston,  in  1808,  and  received  his 
early  education  in  the  city  schools.  He  then  attended 
Harvard  College,  where  he  was  a  classmate  of  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes.  His  education  was  completed  at  Ando- 
ver  (Mass.)  Theological  Seminary. 

Dr.  Smith  was  widely  known  as  an  editor,  but  universally 
known  as  the  author  of  "America."  He  died  in  1896  at 
the  age  of  eighty-seven. 

THE  small  life  coiled  within  the  seed — 

A  promise  hid  away — 
But  dimly  heralds  what  shall  be 

When  comes  the  perfect  day; 
But  sun  and  rain,  and  frost  and  heat, 

Enrich  the  fertile  fields, 
And  the  small  life  of  earlier  years 

A  waving  harvest  yields. 

The  corn  that  slumbers  in  the  hill — 

A  disk  of  golden  grain — 
Stands  up  at  last,  a  rustling  host, 

And  covers  all  the  plain. 


388        PATRIOT  SONS  OF  PATRIOT  SIRES. 

Who  knows  to  what  the  infant  germ 

In  coming  seasons  leads, 
Or  how  the  golden  grain  expands 

And  mighty  armies  feeds? 

The  acorn  in  its  little  cup, 

High  on  the  breezy  hill, 
Waits  for  the  fullness  of  the  times 

Its  mission  to  fulfill. 
And  year  by  year  grows  grand  and  strong— 

What  shall  the  future  be? 
A  noble  forest  on  the  land, 

A  navy  on  the  sea. 

The  bright-eyed  boys  who  crowd  our  schools. 

The  knights  of  book  and  pen, 
Weary  of  childish  games  and  moods, 

Will  soon  be  stalwart  men — 
The  leaders  in  the  race  of  life, 

The  men  to  win  applause ; 
The  great  minds  born  to  guide  the  State, 

The  wise  to  make  the  laws. 

Teach  them  to  guard,  with  jealous  care, 

The  land  that  gave  them  birth — 
As  patriot  sons  of  patriot  sires, 

The  dearest  spot  of  earth; 
Teach  them  the  sacred  trust  to  keep, 

Like  true  men,  pure  and  brave, 
And  o'er  them  through  the  ages  bid 

Freedom's  fair  banner  wave. 


THE  FIELD   OF  CULLODEN,  389 

THE   FIELD    OF   CULLODEN. 

By  WILLIAM  WINTER,  Author,  Poet,  Journalist.  B.  1836, 
Massachusetts  ;  lives  in  New  York. 

From  "  Old  Shrines  and  Ivy,"  Macmillan  &  Co. 

THE  hedges  on  both  sides  of  the  road  from  In- 
verness to  Culloden  are  filled  with  hips  and  haws 
and  with  the  lovely  bluebells  of  Scotland,  and  from 
many  a  neighboring  glade  of  fir  and  birch  sounds 
the  clear,  delicious  call  of  the  throstle, — turning 
the  crisp  air  to  music  and  filling  the  heart  with 
grateful  joy  that  this  world  should  be  so  beautiful. 
You  reach  the  battlefield  almost  before  you  are 
aware  of  its  presence,  and  the  heart  must  be  hard 
indeed  if  you  can  look  upon  it  without  emotion. 
There  is  a  large  oval  grassy  plain,  thickly  strewed 
with  small  stones.  On  one  side  of  it  there  is  a 
lofty  circular  cairn.  On  the  other  side  there  is  an 
irregular  line  of  low,  rough  rocks,  to  mark  the 
sepulchers  of  the  clans  that  died  in  this  place, — 
brave  victims  of  a  merciless  massacre,  heroic  reali- 
ties of  loyal  love  vainly  sacrificed  for  a  dubious 
cause  and  a  weak  leader.  That  is  all.  But  to  the 
eyes  of  the  spirit,  that  lonely  moorland, — once 
populous  with  heroes,  now  filled  with  their  molder- 
ing  bones, — is  forever  hallowed  and  glorious  with 
the  pageant  of  moral  valor,  the  devotion,  and  the 
grandeur,  and  the  fearless  fidelity  of  men  who  were 
content  to  perish  for  what  they  loved.  The  faint 
white  ghost  of  the  half-moon  was. visible  in  the 
western  sky;  no  voice  broke  the  sacred  silence, 


39°  THE  FIELD   OF  CULLODEN. 

and  from  the  neighboring  grove  of  pines  no  whis- 
per floated — though  at  a  distance  you  could  see 
their  pendent  tassels  just  swayed,  and  nothing 
more,  by  the  gentle  autumn  wind.  Words  have 
their  power;  but  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  any  words 
to  paint  the  noble  solemnity  of  that  scene  or  to  ex- 
press the  sublimity  of  its  spirit.  As  you  stand  there 
and  gaze  over  the  green,  heather-spangled  waste, — 
seeing  no  motion  anywhere  save  of  a  wandering 
sheep  or  a  drifting  cloud,  and  hearing  no  sound 
except  the  occasional  cawing  of  a  distant  rook, — 
your  imagination  will  conjure  up  the  scene  of  that 
tremendous  onset  and  awful  carnage  in  which  the 
last  hope  of  the  Stuart  was  broken  and  the  star  of 
his  destiny  went  down  forever.  Here  floated  the 
royal  standard  of  England  and  here  were  ranged 
her  serried  cohorts  and  her  shining  guns.  There, 
on  the  hill-slopes,  flashed  the  banners  of  the  High- 
land clans.  Everywhere  this  placid  moor — now 
brown  and  purple  in  the  slumberous  autumn  light 
— was  brilliant  with  the  scarlet  and  the  tartan  and 
with  the  burnished  steel  of  naked  weapons  gleam- 
ing under  the  April  sky.  Drums  rolled  and 
trumpets  blared  and  the  boom  of  the  cannon 
mingled  in  horrid  discord  with  the  wild  screech  of 
bagpipes  and  the  fierce  Highland  yell;  and  so  the 
intrepid  followers  of  Royal  Charlie  rushed  onward 
to  their  death.  The  world  knows  well  enough 
now — seeing  what  he  became,  and  in  what  manner 
he  lived  and  died — that  he  was  unworthy  of  the 
love  that  followed  him  and  of  the  blood  that  was 


HER  MAJESTY.  39 1 

shed  in  his  cause.  But  when  Culloden  was  fought 
Charles  Edward  Stuart  was  still,  in  Scottish  minds, 
the  gallant  young  prince  unjustly  kept  from  his 
own,  and  the  clans  of  Scotland,  never  yet  pledged 
to  the  Union,  were  rallied  around  their  rightful 
king.  Standing  on  that  grave  of  valor,  with  every 
voice  of  romance  whispering  at  his  heart,  the  sym- 
pathy of  the  pilgrim  is  with  the  prince  who  was  lost, 
and  the  heroes  who  died  for  him — and  died  in  vain. 


HER  MAJESTY. 

By    EDGAR  WADE  ABBOT.      B.   1856,   Brooklyn,   N.   Y. 
lives  in  New  York. 

HER  majesty  comes  when  the  sun  goes  down 
And  clambers  up  to  her  throne,  my  knee. 

Her  royal  robe  is  a  small  white  gown, 
And  this  is  her  majesty's  stern  decree: 

"  Let  me  know  when  the  sandman  passes  by, 

For  we're  going  to  speak  to  him,  you  and  I." 

"  There  was  once  a  monarch  of  old,"  I  say, 

"  Who  sat  where  the  beach  and  the  breakers  met. 

'  Roll  back ! '  he  said  to  the  waves  one  day, 
'  For  the  royal  feet  must  not  be  wet! ' 

But  the  waves  rolled  on.     For  things  there  be," 

I  tell  her,  "  that  mind  not  majesty. 

"  And  silent  and  shy  is  the  sandman  old, 
And  never,  I'm  sure,  since  the  world  began, 

Has  anyone  seen  the  sands  of  gold 

Or  spoken  a  word  to  the  kind  old  man, 


392  THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT. 

But  perhaps,  when  the  twilight's  gold  turns  gray, 
You  may  see  the  old  sandman  pass  this  way. 

'V 

"  For  your  majesty's  eyes  are  young  and  bright, 
Though  mine  with  the  dust  of  time  are  dim, 

And  possibly  queens  have  a  clearer  sight 

Than  subjects  who  sway  to  a  sovereign's  whim. 

But  I'll  watch  for  him,  sweetheart  and  queen,"  I 
say, 

"  And  speak  if  I  see  him  pass  this  way." 

But  the  sandman  came,  for  the  young  eyes  drooped, 
And  the  small  mouth  curved  in  a  drowsy  smile. 

Then  down  to  her  majesty's  lips  I  stooped 

And  kissed  her  and  whispered  a  prayer  the  while : 

"  O  Thou  that  giveth  thy  loved  ones  sleep, 

This  night  her  majesty  safely  keep! " 


THE   BUNKER   HILL   MONUMENT. 

By  Louis  KOSSUTH,  Patriot,  Statesman.  B.  1802,  Hun- 
gary ;  d.  1894,  Turin. 

MY  voice  shrinks  from  the  task  to  mingle  with 
the  awful  pathos  of  that  orator.  Silent  like  the 
grave,  and  yet  melodious  like  the  song  of  immor- 
tality upon  the  lips  of  cherubim, — senseless,  cold 
granite,  and  yet  warm  with  inspiration  like  a 
patriot's  heart, — immovable  like  the  past,  and  yet 
stirring  like  the  future,  which  never  stops, — it  looks 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.          3^3 

like  a  prophet,  and  speaks  like  an  oracle.     And 
thus  it  speaks: 

"  The  day  I  commemorate  is  the  rod  with  which 
the  hand  of  the  Lord  has  opened  the  well  of 
Liberty.  Its  waters  will  flow;  every  new  drop  of 
martyr  blood  will  increase  the  tide;  despots  may 
dam  its  flood,  but  never  stop  it.  The  higher  its 
dam,  the  higher  the  tide;  it  will  overflow,  or  break 
through. 

"  Bow,  and  adore,  and  hope!  " 

Such  are  the  words  which  come  to  my  ears;  and 
I  bow,  I  adore,  I  hope!  In  bowing,  my  eyes  meet 
the  soil  of  Bunker  Hill — that  awful  opening  scene 
of  the  eventful  drama  to  which  Lexington  and  Con- 
cord had  been  the  preface. 

The  spirits  of  the  past  rise  before  my  eyes.  I  see 
Richard  Gridley  hastily  planning  the  intrench- 
ments.  I  hear  the  dull,  cold,  blunt  sound  of  the 
pickax  and  spade  in  the  hands  of  the  patriot  band. 
I  hear  the  patrols  say  that  "  All  is  well."  I  see 
Knowlton  raising  his  line  of  rail  fence.  I  see  the  tall, 
commanding  form  of  Prescott  marching  leisurely 
around  the  parapet,  inflaming  the  tired  patriots 
with  the  classical  words  that  those  who  had  the 
merit  of  the  labor  should  have  the  honor  of  the  vic- 
tory. I  see  Asa  Pollard  fall,  the  first  victim  of  that 
immortal  clay;  I  see  the  chaplain  praying  over  him; 
and  now  the  roaring  of  cannon  from  ships  and  from 
batteries,  and  the  blaze  of  the  burning  town,  and 
the  thrice  renewed  storm,  and  the  persevering  de- 
fense, till  powder  was  gone,  and  but  stones  re- 


394  NOW  OR  NEVER  ! 

mained.  And  I  see  Warren  telling  Elbridge  Gerry 
that  it  is  sweet  and  fair  to  die  for  the  fatherland.  I 
see  him  lingering  in  his  retreat,  and,  struck  in  the 
forehead,  fall  to  the  ground;  and  Pomeroy  with  his 
shattered  musket  in  his  hand,  complaining  that  he 
remained  unhurt  when  Warren  had  to  die;  and  I 
see  all  the  brave  who  fell  unnamed,  unnoticed,  and 
unknown,  the  nameless  corner-stones  of  American 
independence! 


NOW  OR  NEVER! 

By  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES,  Poet,  Author,  Professor. 
B.  1809,  Massachusetts  ;  d.  1894. 

LISTEN,  young  heroes!  your  country  is  calling! 

Time  strikes  the  hour  for  the  brave  and  the  true ! 
Now,  while  the  foremost  are  fighting  and  falling, 

Fill  up  the  ranks  that  have  opened  for  you ! 

You  whom  the  fathers  made  free  and  defended, 
Stain  not  the  scroll  that  emblazons  their  fame! 

You  whose  fair  heritage  spotless  descended, 
Leave  not  your  children  a  birthright  of  shame! 

Stay  not  for  questions  while  Freedom  stands  gasp- 
ing! 

Wait  not  till  Honor  lies  wrapped  in  his  pall! 
Brief  the  lips'  meeting  be,  swift  the  hands'  clasping; 

Off  for  the  wars  is  enough  for  them  all! 


A  RETROSPECT.         «  395 

Break  from  the  arms  that  would  fondly  caress  you! 

Hark!  'tis  the  bugle's  blast!  sabers  are  drawn! 
Mothers  shall  pray  for  you,  fathers  shall  bless  you, 

Maidens  shall  weep  for  you  when  you  are  gone ! 

Never  or  now  cries  the  blood  of  a  nation 

Poured   on   the   turf  where   the   red  rose   shall 
bloom; 

Now  is  the  day  and  the  hour  of  salvation; 
Now  or  never!  peals  the  trumpet  of  doom. 


A   RETROSPECT. 

By  HENRY  WATTERSON,  Orator,  Journalist.  B.  1840, 
Washington,  D.  C. 

Editor  of  the  Louisville  Courier- Journal. 

Selected  from  an  oration  delivered  at  the  dedication  of 
the  World's  Columbian  Exposition,  Chicago,  October  21, 
1892. 

THE  painter  employed  by  the  King's  command, 
to  render  to  the  eye  some  particular  exploit  of  the 
people,  or  the  throne,  knows  in  advance  precisely 
what  he  has  to  do;  there  is  a  limit  set  upon  his  pur- 
pose; his  canvas  is  measured;  his  colors  are 
blended,  and,  with  the  steady  and  sure  hand  of  the 
master,  he  proceeds,  touch  upon  touch,  to  body 
forth- the  forms'of  things  known  and  visible.  Who 
shall  measure  the  canvas  or  blend  the  colors  that 
"are  to  bring  to  the  mind's  eye  of  the  present  the 
scenes  of  the  past  American  glory?  Who  shall 
dare  attempt  to  summon  the  dead  to  life,  and  out  of 


396  A   RETROSPECT. 

the  tombs  of  the  ages  recall  the  tones  of  the 
martyrs  and  heroes  whose  voice.8,  though  silent  for- 
ever, still  speak  to  us  in  all  that  we  are  as  a  nation, 
in  all  that  we  do  as  men  and  women? 

We  look  before  and  after,  and  we  see  through 
the  half-drawn  folds  of  time,  as  through  the  solemn 
archways  of  some  grand  cathedral,  the  long  proces- 
sion pass,  as  silent  and  as  real  as  a  dream;  the  cara- 
vels, tossing  upon  Atlantic  billows,  have  their  sails 
refilled  from  the  East  and  bear  away  to  the  West; 
the  land  is  reached,  and  fulfilled  is  the  vision  whose 
actualities  are  to  be  gathered  by  other  hands  than 
his  who  planned  the  voyage  and  steered  the  bark 
of  discovery;  the  long-sought  golden  day  has  come 
to  Spain  at  last,  and  Castilian  conquests  tread  one 
upon  another  fast  enough  to  pile  up  perpetual 
power  and  riches. 

We  look  again,  and  \ve  see  in  the  far  Northeast 
the  Old  World  struggle  between  the  French  and 
the  English  transferred  to  the  New,  ending  in  the 
tragedy  upon  the  heights  above  Quebec;  we  see 
the  sturdy  Puritans  in  bell-crowned  hats  and  sable 
garments  assail  in  an  unequal  battle  the  savage  and 
the  elements,  overcoming  both  to  rise  against  a 
mightier  foe;  we  see  the  gay  but  dauntless  Cava- 
liers to  the  southward  join  hands  with  the  Round- 
heads in  holy  rebellion.  And,  lo!'down  from  the 
green-walled  hills  of  Xew  England,  out  of  the 
swamps  of  the  Carolina s,  come  faintly  to  the  ear, 
like  far-away  forest  leaves  stirred  to  music  by 
autumn  winds,  the  drum-taps  of  the  Revolution; 


A    RETROSPECT.  397 

the  tramp  of  the  minute-men,  Israel  Putnam  rid- 
ing before;  the  hoof-beats  of  Sumpter's  horse  gal- 
loping to  the  front;  the  thunder  of  Stark's  guns  in 
spirit-battle;  the  gleam  of  Marion's  watch-fires  in 
ghostly  bivouac;  and  there,  there,  in  serried,  saint- 
like ranks  on  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground,  stand 

"  The  old  Continentals, 
In  their  ragged  regimentals, 
Yielding  not," 

as,  amid  the  singing  of  angels  in  heaven,  the  scene 
is  shut  out  from  our  mortal  vision  by  proud  and 
happy  tears. 

We  see  the  rise  of  the  young  republic;  and  the 
gentlemen  in  knee-breeches  and  powdered  wigs 
who  signed  the  Declaration,  and  the  gentlemen  in 
knee-breeches  and  powdered  wigs  who  made  the 
Constitution.  We  see  the  little  nation  menaced 
from  without.  We  see  the  riflemen  in  hunt- 
ing shirt  and  buckskin  swarm  from  the  cabin 
in  the  wilderness  to  the  rescue  of  country  and 
home;  and  our  hearts  swell  to  a  second  and  final 
decree  of  independence  won  by  the  prowess  and 
valor  of  American  arms  upon  the  land  and  sea. 

And  then,  and  then — since  there  is  no  life  of 
nations  or  of  men  without  its  shadow  and  its 
sorrow — there  comes  a  day  when  the  spirits  of 
the  fathers  no  longer  walk  upon  the  battlements 
of  freedom;  and  all  is  dark;  and  all  seems  lost, 
save  liberty  and  honor,  and,  praise  God,  our 
blessed  Union.  With  these  surviving,  who  shall 


398  THE    TELL-TALE. 

marvel  at  what  we  see  to-day;  this  land  filled  with 
the  treasures  of  earth;  this  city,  snatched  from 
the  ashes,  to  rise  in  splendor  and  renown,  passing 
the  mind  to  preconceive? 

Truly,  out  of  trial  comes  the  strength  of  man; 
out  of  disaster  comes  the  glory  of  the  State! 


THE  TELL-TALE. 

ANONYMOUS. 

ONCE  on  a  golden  afternoon, 

With  radiant  faces  and  hearts  in  tune, 

Two  fond  lovers  in  dreamirig  mood 

Threaded  a  rural  solitude. 

Wholly  happy,  they  only  knew 

That  the  earth  was  bright  and  the  sky  was  blue, 

That  light  and  beauty  and  joy  and  song 

Charmed  the  way  as  they  passed  along; 

The  air  was  fragrant  with  woodland  scents: 

The  squirrel  frisked  on  the  roadside  fence; 

And  hovering  near  them:  "  Chee-chee-chink?  " 

Queried  the  curious  bobolink, 

Pausing  and  peering  with  sidelong  head, 

As  saucily  questioning  all  they  said ; 

While  the  ox-eye  danced  on  its  slender  stem, 

And  all  glad  nature  rejoiced  with  them. 

Over  the  odorous  fields  were  strewn 
Wilting  windrows  of  grass  new  mown, 


THE    TELL-TALE.  399 

And  rosy  billows  of  clover  bloom 

Surged  in  the  sunshine  and  breathed  perfume. 

Swinging  low  on  the  slender  limb, 

The  sparrow  warbled  his  wedding  hymn, 

And,  balancing  on  a  blackberry  brier, 

The  bobolink  sung  with  his  heart  on  fire — 

"  Chink?     If  you  wish  to  kiss  her,  do! 

Do  it,  do  it !     You  coward,  you ! 

Kiss  her!     Kiss — kiss  her!     Who  will  see? 

Only  we  three!  we  three!  we  three!  " 

Under  garlands  of  drooping  vines 

Through  dim  vistas  of  sweet-breathed  pines, 

Past  wide  meadows — fields,  lately  mowed, 

Wandered  the  indolent  country  road. 

The  lovers  followed  it,  listing  still, 
And,  loitering  slowly,  as  lovers  will, 
Entered  a  low-roofed  bridge  that  lay 
Dusky  and  cool,  in  their  pleasant  way. 
Under  its  arch  a  smooth  brown  stream 
Silently  glided,  with  glint  and  gleam, 
Shaded  by  graceful  elms  that  spread 
Their  verdurous  canopy  overhead, — 
The  stream  so  narrow,  the  boughs  so  wide, 
They  met  and  mingled  across  the  tide. 
Alders  loved  it,  and  seemed  to  keep 
Patient  watch  as  it  lay  asleep, 
Mirroring  clearly  the  trees  and  sky 
And  the  fluttering  form  of  the  dragon-fly, 
Save  where  the  swift-winged  swallow  played 
In  and  out  in  the  sun  and  shade, 


THE  MONUMEN7*  OF  WILLIAM  PENN. 

And  darting  and  circling  in  merry  chase, 
Dipped,  and  dimpled  its  clear  dark  face. 

Fluttering  lightly  from  brink  to  brink, 
Followed  the  garrulous  bobolink, 
Rallying  loudly,  with  mirthful  din, 
The  pair  who  lingered  unseen  within. 
And  when  from  the  friendly  bridge  at  last, 
Into  the  road  beyond  they  passed, 
Again  beside  them  the  tempter  went, 
Keeping  the  thread  of  his  argument: 
"  Kiss  her — kiss  her,  chink  a-chee-chee! 
I'll  not  mention  it,  don't  mind  me; 
I'll  be  sentinel — I  can  see 
All  around  from  this  tall  birch  tree !  " 
But,  ah !  they  noted,  nor  deemed  it  strange, 
In  his  rollicking  chorus  a  trifling  change : 
"  Do  it — do  it !  "  with  might  and  main, 
Warbled  the  tell-tale,  "  do  it  again!  " 


THE    MONUMENT    OF    WILLIAM    PENN. 

By  ROBERT  JONES  BURDETTE,  Author,  Humorist,  Lecturer. 
B.  1844,  Pennsylvania. 
Extract  from  "  The  History  of  William  Penn." 

BORN  in  stormy  times,  William  Penn  walked 
amid  troubled  waters  all  his  days.  In  an  age  of 
bitter  persecution  and  unbridled  wickedness,  he 
never  wronged  his  conscience.  Living  under  a 
government  at  war  with  the  people,  his  lifelong 


THE  MONUMENT  OF  WILLIAM  PENN.      4° I 

dream  was  of  popular  government,  of  a  State  where 
the  people  ruled. 

In  his  early  manhood,  at  the  bidding  of  con- 
science, against  the  advice  of  his  dearest  friends,  in 
opposition  to  stern  paternal  commands,  against 
every  dictate  of  worldly  wisdom  and  human  pru- 
dence, in  spite  of  all  the  dazzling  temptations  of 
ambition,  so  alluring  to  the  heart  of  a  young  man, 
he  turned  away  from  the  broad  fair  highway  to 
wealth,  position,  and  distinction  that  the  hands  of  a 
king  opened  before  him,  and,  casting  his  lot  with 
the  sect  weakest  and  most  unpopular  in  England, 
through  paths  that  were  tangled  with  trouble  and 
lined  with  pitiless  thorns  of  persecution,  he  walked 
into  honor  and  fame,  and  the  reverence  of  the 
world,  such  as  royalty  could  not  promise  and  could 
not  give  him. 

In  the  land  where  he  planted  his  model  State, 
to-day  no  descendant  bears  his  name.  His  name 
has  faded  out  of  the  living  meetings  of  the  Friends, 
out  of  the  land  that  crowns  his  memory  with  sin- 
cerest  reverence.  Even  the  uncertain  stone  that 
would  mark  his  grave  stands  doubtingly  among  the 
kindred  ashes  that  hallow  the  ground  where  he 
sleeps. 

But  his  monument,  grander  than  storied  column 
of  granite,  or  noble  shape  of  bronze,  is  set  in  the 
glittering  brilliants  of  mighty  States  between  the 
seas.  .  .  Beyond  his  fondest  dreams  has  grown 
the  State  he  planted  in  the  wilderness  by  deeds  of 
peace.  Out  of  the  gloomy  mines,  that  slept  in 


402  "  THOUGH  HE   SLAY!" 

rayless  mystery  beneath  its  mountains  while  he 
lived,  the  measureless  wealth  of  his  model  State 
sparkles  and  glows  on  millions  of  hearthstones. 
From  its  forests  of  derricks  and  miles  of  creeping 
pipe  lines,  the  world  is  lighted  from  the  State  of 
Penn  with  a  radiance  to  which  the  sons  of  the 
founder's  sons  were  blind.  .  . 

Clasping  the  continent  from  sea  to  sea  stretches 
a  chain  of  States  as  free  as  his  own.  From  sunrise 
to  sunset  reaches  a  land  where  the  will  of  the 
people  is  the  supreme  law — a  land  that  never  felt 
the  pressure  of  a  throne,  and  never  saw  a  scepter. 
And  in  the  heart  of  the  city  that  was  his  capital,  in 
old  historic  halls,  still  stands  the  bell  that  first,  in 
the  name  of  the  doctrines  he  taught  his  colonists, 
proclaimed  liberty  throughout  the  land,  and  to  all 
the  inhabitants  thereof.  This  is  his  monument, 
and  every  noble  charity  gracing  his  State  is  his 
epitaph. 


"THOUGH   HE   SLAY!" 

By  ALBION  WINEGAR  TOURGEE,  Author,  Lawyer,  Poet. 
B.  1838,  Ohio;  residence  at  Mayville,  N.  Y.  ;  Consul  to 
Bordeaux,  France. 

From  The  Independent,  December  10,  1896. 

"  I  AM  but  dust! 

Although  He  slay, 
Yet  will  I  trust 

Through  all  the  fray 
In  Him!" 


"  THOUGH  HE   SLAY /"  4°3 

So  boasted  one, 
Breasting  a  battle  just  begun, 
When  dawn  was  dim. 

The  noontide  came. 
The  soldier  faced  the  sheeted  flame, 
Defying  weariness  and  woe, 
And  giving  ever  blow  for  blow. 

From  out  the  din  and  dust 
Of  that  world-fray 
He  shouted  still, 
In  accents  shrill: 
"  Although  He  slay, 

Yet  will  I  trust!" 

The  night  came  down. 

Lo,  stark  and  prone 

The  warrior  lay.     Above  him  thronged 

The  tide  of  those  who  smote  and  wronged. 

The  fight  was  o'er;  the  wrong  had  won; 

The  earth  no  better,  now  'twas  done! 

His  blood  soaked  up  the  dust; 
Valor  and  strength  were  vain. 

"  Although  He  slay,  yet  will  I  trust! " 
And  he  was  slain. 
Dews  kissed  the  plain; 
Sunshine  and  rain 

Washed  clean  the  blood-soaked  dust; 
Flowers  sprang  above  the  dead, 

And  mocked  the  silly  soldier's  trust; 
Wrong  flourished,  and  the  world  forgot 
That  he  had  lived. 


404  "THOUGH  HE   SLAY!" 

But  once  again 

Earth  echoed  with  the  strife  of  men 
Above  the  warrior's  crumbling  dust. 
With  shout  and  curse,  with  stroke  and  thrust, 
Two  mighty  hosts  in  conflict  met; 
Above  his  grave  the  flag  was  set 
For  which  he  fought;  beyond  it  rose 
The  banner  of  his  ancient  foes; 
Clean  through  the  nameless,  moldering  crest 

The  steel-shod  banner-pike  was  prest. 

• 

Again  the  soil  ran  red  with  blood ; 
Again  the  field  with  dead  was  strewed; 
Again  the  shout  of  victory  rose : 
Right  triumphed  now  o'er  fleeing  foes! 

Above  the  level,  unmarked  grave 
Loud  paeans  echo,  banners  wave; 
While,  mingled  with  the  roll  of  drums, 
A  murmur,  faint,  exulting,  comes 

From  out  the  'sanguined  dust, 
The  voice  of  a  forgotten  day: 

"  Not  vainly  did  I  trust, 
Thoug-hHedidslay!" 


HERVE   RIEL.  4°5 


HERVE  RIEL. 

By  ROBERT  BROWNING,   Poet.      B.    1812,   England  ;    d. 

,  Venice. 


ON  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred 

ninety-two, 
Did    the    English    fight    the    French, — woe    to 

France! 
And  the  thirty-first  of  May,  helter-skelter  through 

the  blue, 
Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  porpoises  a  shoal  of 

sharks  pursue, 
Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  St.  Malo  on  the 

Ranee, 
With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 

'Twas  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with  the  victor  in 

full  chase : 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his  great  ship, 

Damfreville; 

Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all; 
And  they  signaled  to  the  place, 
"  Help  the  winners  of  a  race! 

Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harbor,  take  us  quick; 

or,  quicker  still, 
Here's  the  English  can  and  will!  " 

Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk,  and 

leaped  on  board: 

"  \Yhy,  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships  like  these 
to  pass?"  laughed  they: 


HERVE  RIEL. 

"  Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all  the  passage 

scarred  and  scored, 
Shall  the  Formidable,  here,  with  her  twelve  and 

eighty  guns, 

Think  to  make  the  river-mouth  by  the  single  nar- 
row way. 
Trust  to  enter  where  'tis  ticklish  for  a  craft  of 

twenty  tons. 

And  with  flow  at  full  beside? 

Now  'tis  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 

Reach  the  mooring?     Rather  say, 

While  rock  stands,  or  water  runs, 

Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay! " 

Then  was  called  a  council  straight: 

Brief  and  bitter  the  debate. 

"  Here's  the  English  at  our  heels:  would  you  have 

them  take  in  tow 
All  that's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked  together  stern 

and  bow, 

For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound? 
Better  run  the  ship  aground !  " 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech.) 
"  Not  a  minute  more  to  wait! 
Let  the  captains  all  and  each 
Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the  vessels  on 

the  beach! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate !  " 

"  Give  the  word!)"     But  no  such  word 
Was  ever  spoke  or  heard : 

For  up  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in  struck,  amid 
all  these, — 


HERV&   RIEL.  -107 

A   captain?    a   lieutenant?  a   mate, — first,    second, 

third? 

No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete! 
But  a  simple  Breton  sailor,  pressed  by  Tour- 

ville  for  the  fleet, 

A  poor  coasting-pilot  he — Herve  Kiel  the  Croi- 
sickese. 

And  "What  mockery  or  malice  have  we  here?" 

cried  Herve  Riel. 
Are  you  mad,  you  Malouins?    Are  you  cowards, 

fools,  or  rogues? 
Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals? — me,  who  took  the 

soundings,  tell 
On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every 

swell, 
'Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve,  where  the  river 

disembogues? 
Are  you  bought  for  English  gold?     Is  it  love  the 

lying's  for? 

Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 

Entered  free  and  anchored  fast  at  the  foot  of  Soli- 
dor. 
Burn  the  fleet,  and   ruin   France?    That  were 

worse  than  fifty  Hogues ! 

Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth!     Sirs,  be- 
lieve me,  there's  a  way! 
Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 

Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer, 
Get  this  Formidable  clear, 


408  HERV&  KIEL. 

Make  the  others  follow  mine, 

And  I  lead  them,  most  and  least,  by  a  passage 

I  know  well, 
Right  to  Solidor  past  Greve, 

And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound; 
And,  if  one  ship  misbehave, — 

Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground, — 
Why,  I've  nothing  but  my  life:  here's  my  head!" 
cries  Herve  Kiel. 

Not  a  minute  more  to  wait. 
"  Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great! 
Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the  squadron!  " 

cried  its  chief. 
Captains,  give  the  sailor  place! 

He  is  admiral,  in  brief. 
Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace. 
See  the  noble  fellow's  face, 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound, 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 
Keeps  the  passage,  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide 

sea's  profound! 

See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock, 
How  they  follow  in  a  flock; 
Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that  grates 

the  ground, 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief! 
The  peril,  see,  is  past! 
All  are  harbored  to  the  last! 
And,  just  as  Herve  Riel  hollas  "  Anchor!  "  sure  as 

fate, 
Up  the  English  come, — too  late! 


HERVE   KIEL.  4°9 

Then  said  Damfreville,  "  My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard: 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips: 
You  have  saved  the  king  his  ships; 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
'Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse! 
Demand  whate'er  you  will, 
France  remains  your  debtor  still. 
Ask  to  heart's  content,  and  have!  or  my  name's  not 

Damfreville." 

Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue : — 
"  Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say; 

Since  on  board  the  duty's  done, 

And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point  what  is  it 

but  a  run? — 
Since  'tis  ask  and  have,  I  may; 

Since  the  others  go  ashore, — 
Come !     A  good  whole  holiday ! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I  call  the 
Belle  Aurore!" 

That  he  asked,  and  that  he  got, — nothing  more. 

Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost; 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  befell; 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing-smack 


AT   THE  BARRICADE. 

In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  whom  had  gone  to 

wrack 

All  that   France  saved  from  the  fight  whence 
England  bore  the  bell. 


AT  THE  BARRICADE. 

By  VICTOR  MARIE  HUGO,  Poet,  Novelist.    B.  1802,  France  ; 
d.  1885,  France. 

UPON  a  barricade  thrown  'cross  the  street 
Where  patriot's  blood  with  felon's  stains  one's  feet, 
Ta'en  with  grown  men,  a  lad  aged  twelve,  or  less! 
"Were  you  among  them, — you?"     He  answered: 

"  Yes." 

"  Good!  "  said  the  officer,  "  when  comes  your  turn, 
You'll  be  shot,  too."     The  lad  sees  lightnings  burn, 
Stretched  'neath  the  wall  his  comrades  one  by  one: 
Then  says  to  the  officer,  "  First  let  me  run 
And  take  this  watch  home  to  my  mother,  sir?  " 
"You  want  to  escape?"     "No,  I'll  come  back." 

"  What  fear 
These  brats  have!    Where  do  you  live?  "    "  By  the 

well,  below; 

I'll  return  quickly  if  you  let  me  go." 
"Be    off,    young    scamp!"     Off    went    the    boy, 

"Good  joke!" 

And  here  from  all  a  hearty  laugh  outbroke, 
And  with  this  laugh  the  dying  mixed  their  moan. 
But  the  laugh  suddenly  ceased,  when,  paler  grown, 


AT   THE  BAXX1CA&B.  411 

'Midst  them  the  lad  appeared,  and  breathlessly 
Stood  upright  'gainst  the  wall  with:  "  Here  am  I." 
Dull  death  was  shamed;  the  officer  said,  "  Be  free!  " 

Child,  I  know  not,  in  all  this  agony 
Where  good  and  ill  as  with  one  blast  of  hell 
Are  blent,  thy  part;  but  this  I  know  right  well, 
That  thy  young  soul's  a  hero-soul  sublime. 
Gentle  and  brave,  thou  trod'st,  despite  all  crime, 
Two  steps, — one  toward  thy  mother,  one  toward 

death. 

For  the  child's  deeds  the  grown  man  answereth; 
No  fault  was  thine  to  march  where  others  led. 
But  glorious  aye  that  child  who  chose  instead 
Of  flight  that  lured  to  life,  love,  freedom,  May, 
The  somber  wall  'neath  which  slain  comrades  lay! 

Glory  on  thy  young  brow  imprints  her  kiss. 
In  Hellas  old,  sweetheart,  thou  hadst,  I  wis, 
After  some  deathless  flight  to  win  or  save, 
Been  hailed  by  comrades  bravest  of  the  brave; 
Hadst  smiling  in  the  holiest  ranks  been  found, 
Haply  by  some  yEschylean  verse  bright-crowned! 
On  brazen  disks  thy  name  had  been  engraven; 
One   of   those   godlike    youths   who,    'neath    blue 

heaven, 

Passing  some  well  whereo'er  the  willow  droops 
What  time  some  virgin  'neath  her  pitcher  stoops 
Brimmed  for  her  herds  a-thirst,  brings  to  her  eyes 
A  long,  long  look  of  awed  yet  sweet  surmise. 


412  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

By  GEORGE  FRISBIE  HOAR,  Statesman,  Jurist,  Senator 
of  the  United  States.  B.  1826,  Massachusetts. 

Selected  from  an  oration  delivered  in  the  Senate  of  the 
United  States,  December  20,  1894,  in  connection  with  the 
acceptance  of,  and  the  placing  in  the  Statuary  Hall  of  the 
Capitol  at  Washington,  the  marble  statue  of  Daniel  Web- 
ster presented  by  the  State  of  New  Hampshire. 

THERE  are  few  faithful  portraits  of  human  faces 
or  faithful  representations  of  human  figures  which 
take  their  place  by  the  side  of  the  ideal  creations  of 
art,  such  as  the  Jove  of  Phidias  or  the  Apollo  Bel- 
videre,  as  examples  of  consummate  beauty,  or  as 
expressing  great  moral  qualities,  or  as  types  of  na- 
tions or  races.  The  face  of  George  Washington, 
as  represented  by  Stuart ;  the  portrait  of  the  young 
Augustus,  where  in  the  innocent  face  of  unstained 
youth  appears  already  the  promise  of  an  imperial 
character;  some  representations  of  the  youthful 
Napoleon — are  almost  the  only  examples  I  now  re- 
call. The  figure  and  head  of  Daniel  Webster  I 
think  we  shall  all  agree  to  include  in  the  same  list. 

No  man  ever  looked  upon  him  and  forgot  him. 
His  stately  personal  appearance  was  the  chief  orna- 
ment of  Boston  and  of  Washington  for  a  genera- 
tion. When  he  walked  a  stranger  through  the 
streets  of  London,  the  draymen  turned  to  look  after 
him  as  he  passed. 

He  touched  New  England  at  every  point.  He 
was  born  a  frontiersman.  He  was  bred  a  farmer. 
He  was  a  fisherman  in  the  mountain  brooks  and  off 


DANIEL    WEBSTER.  413 

the  shore.  He  never  forgot  his  origin,  and  he 
never  was  ashamed  of  it.  Amid  all  the  care  and 
honor  of  his  great  place  here  he  was  homesick  for 
the  company  of  his  old  neighbors  and  friends. 
Whether  he  stood  in  Washington,  the  unchallenged 
prince  and  chief  in  the  Senate,  or  in  foreign  lands, 
the  kingliest  man  of  his  time  in  the  presence  of 
kings,  his  heart  was  in  New  England.  When  the 
spring  came  he  heard  far  off  the  fife  bird  and  the 
bobolink  calling  him  to  his  New  Hampshire  moun- 
tains, or  the  plashing  of  the  waves  on  the  shore  at 
Marshfield  alluring  him  with  a  sweeter  than  siren's 
voice  to  his  home  by  the  summer  sea. 

That  he  was  foremost  in  that  field  which  is  al- 
most peculiar  to  this  country,  where  the  orator 
utters  the  emotions  of  the  people  on  great  occa- 
sions of  joy  or  sorrow  or  of  national  pride,  the 
reader  of  the  orations  at  Plymouth  Rock  and  on  the 
occasion  of  the  foundation  and  completion  of  the 
monument  at  Bunker  Hill  will  not  question. 
There  has  been  nothing  of  the  kind  to  surpass  them 
or  to  equal  them  since  the  funeral  oration  of 
Pericles. 

But  the  place  of  his  achievement  and  renown 
was  here  in  the  Senate  Chamber.  He  was  every 
inch  a  Senator — an  American  Senator.  He  needed 
no  robe,  no  gilded  chair,  no  pageant,  no  ceremony, 
no  fasces,  no  herald  making  proclamation  to  add  to 
the  dignity  and  to  the  authority  with  which  his 
majestic  presence,  his  consummate  reason,  his 
weighty  eloquence,  his  lofty  bearing  invested  the 


414  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

senatorial  character.  His  stakie  will  stand  in  yon- 
der chamber  to  be  the  first  object  of  admiration  to 
every  visitor  for  centuries  to  come.  But  no  work 
of  art  can  do  justice  to  the  image  of  Webster  which 
dwells  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen,  and  there 
shall  abide  when  the  walls  of  this  Capitol  shall  have 
crumbled  and  the  columns  of  the  Memorial  Hall 
shall  lie  prostrate.  That  image  will  abide,  one 
and  inseparable  with  the  Union  which  he  defended 
and  the  liberty  which  he  loved. 

The  bitterest  enemy,  the  most  austere  judge, 
must  grant  to  Daniel  Webster  a  place  with  the 
great  intellects  of  the  world.  He  was  among  the 
greatest.  Of  all  the  men  who  have  rendered  great 
services  to  America  and  to  the  cause  of  constitu- 
tional liberty,  there  are  but  two  or  three  names 
worthy  to  be  placed  by  the  side  of  his.  Of  all  the 
lovers  of  his  country,  no  man  ever  loved  her  with 
a  greater  love.  In  all  the  attributes  of  a  mighty 
and  splendid  manhood  he  never  had  a  superior  on 
earth.  Master  of  English,  master  of  the  loftiest 
emotions  that  stirred  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen, 
comprehending  better  than  any  other  man  save 
Marshall  the  principles  of  her  Constitution,  he  is 
the  one  foremost  figure  in  our  history  between  the 
day  when  Washington  died  and  the  day  when  Lin- 
coln took  the  oath  of  office. 


A    SOA'G  Of   THE   CAMP.  4 15 


A  SONG  OF  THE  CAMP. 

By  BAYARD  TAYLOR,  Poet,  Novelist,  Lecturer.     B.  1825, 
Pennsylvania  ;  d.  1878,  Berlin,  Germany. 

"  GIVE  us  a  song!  "  the  soldiers  cried, 

The  outer  trenches  guarding, 
"\Yhen  the  heated  force  of  the  camps  allied 

Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 


The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff, 

Lay,  grim  and  threatening,  under — 

And  the  tawnv  mound  of  the  Alalakoff 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder. 

There  was  a  pause — a  guardsman  said: 
"  We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow — 

Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side, 

Below  the  smoking  cannon — 
P.rave  hearts  from  Severn,  and  from  Clyde, 

And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 


They  sang  of  Love  and  not  of  Fame — 
Forgot  was  Britain's  glory — 

Each  heart  recalled  a  different  name, 
But  all  sang  "  Annie  Laurie." 


4*6  A    SOXG   Or    THE    CAMP. 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 

Until  its  tender  passion 
Rose,  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong, 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 


Dear  girl !  her  name  he  dared  not  speak, 
Yet,  as  the  song  grew  louder, 

Something  upon  the  soldier's  cheek 
Washed  off  the  stains  of  powder. 

Beneath  the  darkened  ocean  burned 
The  crimson  sunset's  embers, 

While  the  Crimean  valleys  learned 
How  English  love  remembers. 

And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 
Rained  on  the  Russian  quarters, 

With  scream  of  shot  and  burst  of  shell, 
And  bellowing  of  the  mortars. 

And  Irish  Nora's  eyes  are  dim 
For  a  singer  dumb  and  gory; 

And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 
Who  sang  of  "  Annie  Laurie." 

Ah,  soldier!  to  your  honored  rest, 
Your  truth  and  valor  bearing — 

The  bravest  are  the  tenderest, 
The  loving  are  the  daring. 


THE  ISLAND   OF   THE   SCOTS. 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SCOTS. 

By  WILLIAM  EDMONSTOUNE  AYTOUN,  Lawyer,  Poet.  B. 
1813,  Edinburgh  ;  d.  1865. 

This  poem  is  founded  upon  an  exploit  of  a  company  of 
Scottish  gentlemen,  in  December,  1697,  who,  having  been 
officers  in  the  army  of  Dundee,  escaped  to  France  upon  the 
defeat  and  death  of  that  general,  and  took  service  under 
the  French  king.  John  Graeme  of  Claverhouse,  Viscount 
Dundee,  was  a  famous  Scottish  soldier,  who  supported  the 
cause  of  the  exiled  James  II.  with  such  skill  and  valor  that 
his  name  and  death  are  recorded  as  heroic. 

THE  Rhine  is  running  deep  and  red, 

The  island  lies  before — 
"  Now  is  there  one  of  all  the  host 

Will  dare  to  venture  o'er? 
For  not  alone  the  river's  sweep 

Might  make  a  brave  mm  quail: 
The  foe  are  on  the  further  side, 

Their  shot  comes  fast  as  hail. 
God  help  us,  if  the  middle  isle 

We  may  not  hope  to  win ! 
Now  is  there  any  of  the  host 

Will  dare  to  venture  in?  " 

"  The  ford  is  deep,  the  banks  are  steep, 

The  island-shore  lies  wide: 
Nor  man  nor  horse  could  stem  its  force, 

Or  reach  the  further  side. 
See  there !  amidst  the  willow-boughs 

The  serried  bayonets  gleam; 
They've  flung  their  bridge — they've  won  the  isle; 

The  foe  have  crossed  the  stream! 


l  THE   ISLAND   OF    7 'HE   SCOTS. 

Their  volley  flashes  sharp  and  strong — 

By  all  the  saints!  I  trow 
There  never  yet  was  soldier  born 

Could  force  that  passage  now !  " 

So  spoke  the  bold  French  Mareschal 

With  him  who  led  the  van, 
Whilst  rough  and  red  before  their  view 

The  turbid  river  ran. 
Nor  bridge  nor  boat  had  they  to  cross 

The  wild  and  swollen  Rhine, 
And  thundering  on  the  other  bank 

Far  stretched  the  German  line. 

Hard  by  there  stood  a  swarthy  man 

Was  leaning  on  his  sword, 
And  a  saddened  smile  lit  up  his  face 

As  he  heard  the  captain's  word. 
"  I've  stemmed  a  heavier  torrent  yet, 

And  never  thought  to  care. 
If  German  steel  be  sharp  and  keen, 

Is  ours  not  strong  and  true? 
There  may  be  danger  in  the  deed, 

But  there  is  honor  too." 

The  old  lord  in  his  saddle  turned, 

And  hastily  he  said: 
"  Hath  bold  Duguesclin's  fiery  heart 

Awakened  from  the  dead? 
Thou  art  the  leader  of  the  Scots — 

Now  well  and  sure  I  know, 


THE   ISLAND    OF    THE   SCOTS.  4X9 

That  gentle  blood  in  dangerous  hour 

Ne'er  yet  ran  cold  nor  slow, 
And  I  have  seen  thee  in  the  fight 

Do  all  that  mortal  may: 
If  honor  is  the  boon  ye  seek, 

It  may  be  won  this  day — 
The  prize  is  in  the  middle  isle, 

There  lies  the  adventurous  way. 
And  armies  twain  are  on  the  plain, 

The  daring  deed  to  see —  - 
Now  ask  thy  gallant  company 

If  they  will  follow  thee ! " 

Right  gladsome  looked  the  captain  then, 

And  nothing  did  he  say, 
But  he  turned  him  to  his  little  band — 

Oh,  few,  I  ween,  were  they! 
The  relics  of  the  bravest  force 

That  ever  fought  in  fray. 
No  one  of  all  that  company 

But  bore  a  gentle  name, 
Not  one  whose  fathers  had  not  stood 

In  Scotland's  fields  of  fame. 

"  The  stream,"  he  said,  "  is  broad  and  deep, 

And  stubborn  is  the  foe — 
Yon  island  strength  is  guarded  well — 

Say,  brothers,  will  ye  go? 

"  Come,  brothers!  let  me  name  a  spell 
Shall  rouse  your  soul  again, 


420  THE  ISLAND   OF   THE   SCOTS. 

And  send  the  old  blood  bounding  free 
Through  pulse  and  heart  and  vein. 

Call  back  the  days  of  bygone  years — 
Be  young  and  strong  once  more; 
•  >  •  •  • 

The  soul  of  Graeme  is  with  us  still — 
Now,  brothers,  will  ye  in?" 

No  stay — no  pause.     With  one  accord 

They  grasped  each  other's  hand, 
They  plunged  into  the  angry  flood, 

That  bold  and  dauntless  band. 
High  flew  the  spray  above  their  heads, 

Yet  onward  still  they  bore, 
Midst  cheer,  and  shout,  and  answering  yell, 

And  shot,  and  cannon-roar — 

Thick  blew  the  smoke  across  the  stream, 

And  faster  flashed  the  flame: 
The  water  plashed  in  hissing  jets 

As  ball  and  bullet  came. 
Yet  onward  pushed  the  cavaliers 

All  stern  and  undismayed, 
With  thousand  armed  foes  before, 

And  none  behind  to  aid. 

.  .  .  .  • 

Then  rose  a  warning  cry  behind, 

A  joyous  shout  before: 
"  The  current's  strong — the  way  is  long — 

They'll  never  reach  the  shore ! 


THE   ISLAND   OF    THE   SCOTS.  421 

See,  see!  they  stagger  in  the  midst, 

They  waver  in  their  line! 
Fire  on  the  madmen !  break  their  ranks, 

And  whelm  them  in  the  Rhine!  " 


The  German  heart  is  stout  and  true, 

The  German  arm  is  strong; 
The  German  foot  goes  seldom  back 

Where  armed  foemen  throng. 
But  never  had  they  faced  in  field 

So  stern  a  charge  before, 
And  never  had  they  felt  the  sweep 

Of  Scotland's  broad  claymore. 
Not  fiercer  pours  the  avalanche 

Adown  the  steep  incline 
That  rises  o'er  the  parent-springs 

Of  rough  and  rapid  Rhine — 
Scarce  swifter  shoots  the  bolt  from  heaven 

Than  came  the  Scottish  band 
Right  up  against  the  guarded  trench. 

And  o'er  it  sword  in  hand. 


O  lonely  island  of  the  Rhine — 

Where  seed  was  never  sown, 
What  harvest  lay  upon  thy  sands, 

By  those  strong  reapers  thrown? 
What  saw  the  winter  moon  that  night, 

As  struggling  through  the  rain 
She  poured  a  wan  and  fitful  light 

On  marsh,  and  stream,  and  plain? 


422  THE  BELL. 

A  dreary  spot  with  corpses  strewn, 

And  bayonets  glistening  round; 
A  broken  bridge,  a  stranded  boat, 

A  bare  and  battered  mound; 
And  one  huge  watchfire's  kindled  pile, 

That  sent  its  quivering  glare 
To  tell  the  leaders  of  the  host 

The  conquering  Scots  were  there! 


THE  BELL. 

By  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  TAYLOR,  Poet,  Journalist,  Lec- 
turer.     B.  1819,  New  York  ;  d.  1856,  New  York. 

THE  Roman  knight  who  rode,  "  all  accoutered  as 
he  was,"  into  the  gulf,  and  the  hungry  forum  closed 
upon  him  and  was  satisfied,  slew,  in  his  own  dying, 
that  great  Philistine,  Oblivion,  which  sooner  or 
later  will  conquer  us  all. 

We  never  thought,  when  we  used  to  read  his 
story,  that  the  grand  classic  tragedy  of  patriotic  de- 
votion would  be  a  thousand  times  repeated  in  our 
own  day  and  presence;  that  the  face  of  the  neigh- 
bor, who  has  walked  by  our  side  all  the  while, 
should  be  transfigured,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
like  the  face  of  an  angel;  that  the  old  gods,  who 
thundered  in  Greek  and  lightened  in  Latin,  should 
stand  aside  while  common  men,  of  plain  English 
speech,  upon  whose  shoulders  we  had  laid  a  fa- 
miliar hand,  should  keep  in  motion  the  machinery 


THE   BELL.  423 

of  the  grandest  epic  of  the  world — the  war  for  the 
American  Union. 

But  there  is  an  old  story  that  always  charmed  us 
more  : 

In  some  strange  land  and  time — for  so  the  story 
runs — they  were  about  to  found  a  bell  for  a  mid- 
night tower — a  hollow,  starless  heaven  of  iron.  It 
should  toll  for  dead  monarchs,  "The  king  is  dead  "; 
and  make  glad  clamor  for  the  new  prince,  "  Long 
live  the  king."  It  should  proclaim  so  great  a  pas- 
sion or  so  grand  a  pride,  that  either  would  be  wor- 
ship, or  if  wanting  these,  it  should  forever  hold  its 
peace.  Xow  this  bell  was  not  to  be  dug  out  of  the 
cold  mountains;  it  was  to  be  made  of  something 
that  had  been  warmed  by  a  human  touch  and  loved 
by  a  human  love;  and  so  the  people  came,  like  pil- 
grims to  a  shrine,  and  cast  their  offerings  into  the 
furnace,  and  went  away.  There  were  links  of 
chains  that  bondsmen  had  worn  bright,  and  frag- 
ments of  swords  that  had  broken  in  heroes'  hands; 
there  were  crosses  and  rings  and  bracelets  of  fine 
gold ;  trinkets  of  silver  and  toys  of  poor  red  copper. 
They  even  brought  things  that  were  licked  up  in  an 
instant  by  the  red  tongues  of  flame,  good  words  they 
had  written  and  flowers  they  had  cherished,  perisha- 
ble things  that  could  never  be  heard  in  the  rich 
tone  and  volume  of  the  bell.  And  by  and  by  the 
bell  was  alone  in  its  chamber,  and  its  four  windows 
looked  forth  to  the  four  quarters  of  heaven.  For 
many  a  day  it  hung  dumb.  The  winds  came  and 
went,  but  they  only  set  it  sighing;  the  birds  came 


424  THE  BELL. 

and  sang  under  its  eaves,  but  it  was  an  iron  horizon 
of  dead  melody  still :  all  the  meaner  strifes  and  pas- 
sions of  men  rippled  on  below  it;  they  outgroped 
the  ants  and  outwrought  the  bees  and  outwatched 
the  shepherds  of  Chaldea,  but  the  chambers  of  the 
bell  were  as  dumb  as  the  cave  of  Machpelah. 

At  last  there  came  a  time  when  men  grew  grand 
for  right  and  truth,  and  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder 
over  all  the  land,  and  went  down  like  reapers  to 
'the  harvest  of  death;  looked  in  the  graves  of  them 
that  slept,  and  believed  there  was  something 
grander  than  living;  glanced  on  into  the  far  future, 
and  discovered  there  was  something  bitterer  than 
dying;  and  so,  standing  between  the  quick  and  the 
dead,  they  acquitted  themselves  like  men.  Then 
the  bell  awoke  in  its  chamber,  and  the  great  waves 
of  its  music  rolled  gloriously  out  and  broke  along 
the  blue  walls  of  the  world  like  an  anthem;  and 
every  tone  in  it  was  familiar  as  an  household  word 
to  somebody,  and  he  heard  it  and  knew  it  with  a 
solemn  joy.  Poured  into  that  fiery  heart  together, 
thi  humblest  gifts  were  blent  in  one  great  wealth, 
and  accents,  feeble  as  a  sparrow's  song,  grew  elo- 
quent and  strong;  and  lo!  a  people's  stately  soul 
heaved  on  the  waves  of  a  mighty  voice. 


DISCONTENT.  425 

DISCONTENT. 

ANONYMOUS. 

DOWN  in  a  field  one  day  in  June, 
The  flowers  all  bloomed  together 

Save  one,  who  tried  to  hide  herself, 
And  drooped  that  pleasant  weather. 

A  robin  who  had  flown  too  high, 

And  felt  a  little  lazy, 
Was  resting  near  this  buttercup, 

Who  wished  she  was  a  daisy. 

For  daisies  grow  so  trig  and  tall, 

She  always  had  a  passion 
For  wearing  frills  around  her  neck 

In  just  the  daisies'  fashion. 

And  buttercups  must  always  be 

The  same  old  tiresome  color, 
While  daisies  dress  in  gold  and  white, 

Although  their  gold  is  duller. 

"  Dear  Robin,"  said  this  sad  young  flower, 
"  Perhaps  you'd  not  mind  trying 

To  find  a  nice  white  frill  for  me 
Some  day  when  you  are  flying." 

"  You  silly  thing!  "  the  robin  said, 

"  I  think  you  must  be  crazy; 
I'd  rather  be  my  honest  self 

Than  any  made-up  daisy. 


426  ARLINGTON. 

"  You're  nicer  in  your  own  bright  gown; 

The  little  children  love  you; 
Be  the  best  buttercup  you  can, 

And  think  no  flower  above  you. 

"  Though  swallows  leave  me  out  of  sight, 
We'd  better  keep  our  places, 

Perhaps  the  world  would  all  go  wrong 
With  one  too  many  daisies. 

"  Look  bravely  up  unto  the  sky, 
And  be  content  with  knowing 

That  God  wished  for  a  buttercup 
Just  here,  where  you  are  growing." 


ARLINGTON. 

By  JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD,  Statesman,  President  of  the 
United  States.  B.  1831,  Ohio  ;  d.  1881,  New  Jersey. 

The  oration  from  which  this  extract  is  taken  was  deliv- 
ered at  Arlington,  Va.,  May  30,  1868. 

I  LOVE  to  believe  that  no  heroic  sacrifice  is  ever 
lost;  that  the  characters  of  men  are  molded  and  in- 
spired by  what  their  fathers  have  done;  that  treas- 
ured up  in  American  souls  are  all  the  unconscious 
influences  of  the  great  deeds  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race,  from  Agincourt  to  Bunker  Hill.  It  was  such 
an  influence  that  led  a  young  Greek,  two  thousand 
years  ago,  when  musing  on  the  battle  of  Marathon, 
to  exclaim,  "  The  trophies  of  Miltiades  will  not  let 
me  sleep!"  Could  these  men  be  silent  whose  an- 


ARLINGTON.  427 

cestors  had  felt  the  inspiration  of  battle  on  every 
field  where  civilization  had  fought  in  the  last  thou- 
sand years?  Read  their  answer  in  this  green  turf. 
Each  for  himself  gathered  up  the  cherished  pur- 
poses of  life, — its  aims  and  ambitions,  its  dearest 
affections, — :  nd  flung  all,  with  life  itself,  into  the 
scale  of  battle. 

Fortunate  men!  your  country  lives  because  you 
died!  Your  fame  is  placed  where  the  breath  of 
calumny  can  never  reach  it;  where  the  mistakes  of 
a  weary  life  can  never  dim  its  brightness!  Coming 
generations  will  rise  up  to  call  vou  blessed!  If 
each  grave  had  a  voice  to  tell  us  what  its  silent 
tenant  last  saw  and  heard  on  earth,  we  might  stand, 
with  uncovered  heads,  and  hear  the  whole  story  of 
the  war.  The  voices  of  these  dead  will  forever  fill 
the  land  like  holy  benedictions. 

What  other  spot  so  fitting  for  their  last  resting 
place  as  this,  under  the  shadow  of  the  Capitol  saved 
by  their  valor?  Here  where  the  grim  edge  of 
battle  joined, — here,  where  all  the  hope  and  fear 
and  agony  of  their  country  centered, — here  let  them 
rest,  asleep  on  the  nation's  heart,  entombed  in  the 
nation's  love! 

The  view  from  this  spot  bears  some  resemblance 
to  that  which  greets  the  eye  at  Rome.  In  sight  of 
the  Capitoline  Hill,  up  and  across  the  Tiber,  and 
overlooking  the  city,  is  a  hill,  not  rugged  nor  lofty, 
but  known  as  the  Vatican  Mount.  At  the  begin- 
ning of  the  Christian  era  an  imperial  circus  stood 
on  its  summit.  There  gladiator  slaves  died  for  the 


428  ARLINGTON. 

sport  of  Rome,  and  wild  beasts  fought  with  wilder 
men.  There  a  Galilean  fisherman  gave  up  his  life 
a  sacrifice  for  his  faith.  No  human  life  was  ever  so 
nobly  avenged.  On  that  spot  was  reared  the 
proudest  Christian  temple  ever  built  by  human 
hands.  For  its  adornment  the  rich  offerings  of 
every  clime  and  kingdom  have  been  contributed. 
And  now,  after  eighteen  centuries,  the  hearts  of  two 
hundred  million  people  turn  toward  it  with  rever- 
ence when  they  worship  God.  As  the  traveler 
descends  the  Apennines,  he  sees  the  dome  of  St. 
Peter's  rising  above  the  desolate  Campagna  and  the 
dead  city,  long  before  the  Seven  Hills  and  the 
ruined  palaces  appear  to  his  view.  The  fame  of 
the  dead  fisherman  has  outlived  the  glory  of  the 
Eternal  City.  A  noble  life,  crowned  with  heroic 
death,  rises  above  and  outlives  the  pride  and  pomp 
and  glory  of  the  mightiest  empire  of  the  earth. 

Seen  from  the  western  slope  of  our  Capitol,  in 
direction,  distance,  appearance,  this  spot  is  not  un- 
like the  Vatican  Mount,  though  the  river  that  flows 
at  our  feet  is  larger  than  a  hundred  Tibers.  The 
soil  beneath  our  feet  was  watered  by  the  tears  of 
slaves,  in  whose  hearts  the  sight  of  yonder  proud 
Capitol  awakened  no  pride  and  inspired  no  hope. 
The  face  of  the  goddess  that  crowns  it  was  turned 
toward  the  sea  and  not  toward  them.  But,  thanks 
be  to  God,  this  arena  of  slavery  is  a  scene  of  vio- 
lence and  crime  no  longer!  This  will  be  forever 
the  sacred  mountain  of  our  capitol.  Here  is  our 


THE   SHELL.  429 

temple;  its  pavement  is  the  sepulcher  of  heroic 
hearts;  its  dome,  the  bending  heaven;  its  altar 
candles,  the  watching  stars. 


THE  SHELL. 

By  ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON,  Poet.     B.  1809,   England 
d.  1892. 

SEE  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot, 
Frail,  but  a  work  divine. 
Made  so  fairily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design! 
What  is  it?    A  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurled, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Through  his  dim  water-world? 


43°  INTERNATIONAL    GOOD    WILL. 

Slight,  to  be  crush'd  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand! 
Small,  but  a  work  divine ! 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three-decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand! 


INTERNATIONAL   GOOD   WILL. 

By  an  editorial  writer  of  the  New  York  Tribune. 

This  selection  appeared  December  24,  1896.  It  is  not  the 
practice  of  the  Tribune  to  give  the  names  of  its  editorial 
writers. 

To  bear  false  witness  against  a  neighbor — that 
is,  to  lie  about  him,  to  malign  him,  to  defame  his 
character — is  a  sin.  The  moral  law  puts  it  in  the 
same  category  with  theft  and  murder.  The  com- 
mon law  recognizes  it  as  an  offense  against  per- 
sonal rights  and  social  order.  The  statute  law  of 
civilized  countries  sets  it  down  as  a  crime  against 
the  state,  punishable  by  fine  and  imprisonment, 
and  as  a  wrong  against  the  individual  for  which 
indemnity  may  be  recovered.  Such  is  the  case, 
that  is  to  say,  when  the  act  of  bearing  false  witness 
is  directed  against  a  neighbor  in  a  somewhat  strict 
interpretation  of  that  term.  But  the  degree  of  cul- 
pability decreases  as  the  square  of  the  distance  of 


INTERNATIONAL   GOOD    WILL.  431 

the  object  attacked  increases:  and  when  that  object 
is  beyond  the  limits  of  one's  own  country,  and  is 
not  a  private  individual,  but  a  sovereign,  a  govern- 
ment, or  a  nation,  the  culpability  is  reckoned  to 
vanish  altogether.  Burke  did  not  know  how  to 
draw  up  an  indictment  against  a  whole  people. 
There  are  plenty  of  men  who  do  know  how  to  libel 
a  whole  people  and  too  few  who  reckon  such  a  libel 
a  crime. 

Yet  there  are  few  more  grievous  offenses  against 
good  morals,  or  against  true  religion.  It  is  easy 
enough  to  talk  and  preach  and  sing  about  "  peace 
on  earth,  good  will  to  men."  But  what  sort  of  ful- 
fillment of  that  sublime  message  are  men  working 
for  when  they  habitually  abuse  and  revile  those  of 
their  neighbors  who  happen  to  be  separated  from 
them  by  political  boundary  lines,  or  differences  of 
government,  speech,  or  race?  If  that  message 
means  anything,  it  means  that  all  men,  the  world 
over,  are  neighbors,  and  that  peace  and  good  will 
should  prevail  among  them  everywhere.  Surely  it 
does  not  conduce  to  peace  to  call  one  nation  a  na- 
tion of  butchers,  nor  promote  'good  will  to  refer 
habitually  to  another  as  an  international  thief.  It 
is  easy  to  say  this  Power  is  a  bully,  and  that  ruler 
an  assassin.  But  if  the  charges  be  not  true,  what 
becomes  of  the  Commandment  against  bearing 
false  witness?  And  it  is  not  enough  not  to  know 
.they  are  not  true.  No  one  has  a  right  to  make 
them  unless  he  knows  they  are  true. 

For  are  our  Government  and  social  order  so  im- 


432  LIBERTY. 

peccable  as  to  make  America  the  chartered  censor 
of  creation?  We  are  angry  with  China  when  her 
mobs  harry  and  kill  our  missionaries.  But  what 
of  the  Chinamen  harried  and  killed  here,  not  6"nly 
with  impunity,  but  with  praise?  Has  our  faith 
toward  the  Indians  been  always  flawless  and  untar- 
nished? 

If  he  who  provokes  unfriendliness  between  indi- 
viduals is  an  enemy  of  both,  he  who  makes  nations 
hostile  is  an  enemy  of  mankind.  History  is  not 
devoid  of  instances  of  international  feuds  and  wars 
arising  simply  from  persistent  misrepresentation — 
through  bearing  false  witness  against  a  sovereign 
or  a  people.  It  ought  not  to  be  possible,  in  this 
era  of  Christian  civilization,  for  such  a  thing  ever 
to  occur.  If  speakers  and  writers  were  as  scrupu- 
lous and  as  cautious  in  criticising  foreign  nations 
and  governments  as  they  are  in  discussing  the 
affairs  of  their  next-door  neighbors,  diplomacy 
would  become  almost  a  sinecure  and  armies  and 
navies  would  find  half  their  occupation  gone. 


LIBERTY. 

By  EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS,  Poet.     B.  1854,  Ohio. 
From  "  Lyrics    and  Sonnets,"  copyright  by  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co. 

How  winneth  Liberty?     By  sword  and  brand, 
Or  by  the  souls  of  those  who  strive  and  die? 

Where  dwelleth  Liberty?     Where  lies  the  land 
Most  open  to  the  favors  of  her  eye? 


LIBERTY.  433 

Hath  she  her  seat  in  empires,  deserts  wide, 
Or  most  in  little  freeholds  doth  she  bide? 

What  is  the  range  that  Nature  gives  her  own? 

With  frost  or  fire  she  stays  their  flying  feet, 
And  holdeth  each  within  its  native  zone: 

The  pine  its  love — the  palm  shall  never  meet; 
Nowhere  do  roses  bloom  from  beds  of  ice, 
Nowhere  in  valleys  laughs  the  edelweiss. 

The  races  of  the  sea  shall  never  fare 

Beyond  the  moist  and  sounding  element, 

Nor  any  pinion,  fledged  and  schooled  in  air, 

On  venturous  errand  through  the  waves  be  sent: 

The  cygnet  to  his  nest  of  river  flag, 

The  eagle  to  his  aerie  on  the  crag. 

Dwells  Freedom  with  the  sphery  multitude 
The  vistas  of  the  nightly  sky  reveal? 

Each  planet  keeps  the  track  it  hath  pursued, 
And  shall  pursue  while  ages  turn  and  wheel: 

Uncentered,  roves  the  guideless  aerolite, 

And  drives  to  ruin  down  the  steeps  of  night. 

With  law  dwells  Liberty;  law  maketh  free; 

Fly  law,  and  thou  dost  forge  thyself  a  chain. 
Still  wouldst  thou  pass  the  limits  set  for  thee? 
Still  wouldst  thou  grasp  strange  honors  and  do 

main? 

Behold,  his  liberty  exceedeth  thine, 
Who  freely  breathes  in  bounds  where  thou  wouldst 
pine! 


434  THE   REFORMER. 


THE   REFORMER. 

By  HORACE  GREELEY,  Journalist.  B.  1811,  New  Hamp- 
shire; d.  1872,  New  York. 

THOUGH  the  life  of  the  reformer  may  seem 
rugged  and  arduous,  it  were  hard  to  say  consider- 
ately that  any  other  were  worth  living  at  all.  Who 
can  thoughtfully  affirm  that  the  career  of  the  con- 
quering, desolating,  subjugating  warrior;  of  the 
devotee  of  gold,  or  pomp,  or  sensual  joys;  the 
monarch  in  his  purple,  the  miser  by  his  chest — is 
not  a  libel  on  humanity,  and  an  offense  against 
God? 

But  the  earnest,  unselfish  reformer,  born  into  a 
state  of  darkness,  evil,  and  suffering,  and  honestly 
striving  to  displace  these  by  light  and  purity  and 
happiness,  may  fall  and  die,  as  so  many  have  done 
before  him,  but  he  cannot  fail.  His  vindication 
shall  gleam  from  the  walls  of  his  hovel,  his  dun- 
geon, his  tomb;  it  shall  shine  in  the  radiant  eyes  of 
uncorrupted  childhood,  and  fall  in  blessings  from 
the  lips  of  high-hearted  generous  youth. 

As  the  untimely  death  of  the  good  is  our  strong- 
est moral  assurance  of  the  resurrection,  so  the  life 
wearily  worn  out  in  a  doubtful  and  perilous  con- 
flict with  wrong  and  woe  is  our  most  conclusive 
evidence  that  wrong  and  woe  shall  vanish  forever. 

Life  is  a  bubble  which  any  breath  may  dissolve; 
wealth  or  power  a  snowflake,  melting  momently 
into  the  treacherous  deep,  across  whose  waves  we 


COLUMBIA.  435 

are  floated  on  to  our  unseen  destiny;  but  to  have 
lived  so  that  one  less  orphan  is  called  to  choose  be- 
tween starvation  and  infamy,  one  less  slave  feels 
the  lash  applied  in  mere  wantonness  or  cruelty — 
to  have  lived  so  that  some  eyes  of  those  whom 
fame  shall  never  know  are  brightened  and  others 
suffused  at  the  name  of  the  beloved  one,  so  that  the 
few  who  knew  him  truly  shall  recognize  him  as  the 
bright,  warm,  cheering  presence,  which  was  here 
for  a  season,  and  left  the  world  no  worse  for  his 
stay  in  it — this  is  surely  to  have  really  lived,  and 
not  wholly  in  vain. 


COLUMBIA. 

By  EDWARD  CHAPMAN,  Lawyer,  Poet.     B.  1789,  Connec- 
ticut ;  d.  1821,  Pennsylvania. 

COLUMBIA'S  shores  are  wild  and  wide, 

Columbia's  hills  are  high, 
And  rudely  planted  side  by  side 

Her  forests  meet  the  eye. 
But  narrow  must  those  shores  be  made, 

And  low  Columbia's  hills, 
And  low  her  ancient  forests  laid, 

Ere  Freedom  leaves  her  fields. 

For  'tis  the  land  where  rude  and  wild 
She  played  her  gambols  when  a  child. 

And  deep  and  wide  her  streamlets  flow 

Impetuous  to  the  tide, 
And  thick  and  green  the  laurels  grow 

On  every  river's  side. 


436  COLUMBIA. 

But  should  some  transatlantic  host 

Pollute  her  waters  fair, 
We'll  meet  them  on  the  rocky  coast 
And  gather  laurels  there! 

For,  oh!  Columbia's  sons  are  free! 
Their  breasts  beat  high  with  Liberty. 

For  arming  boldest  cuirassier  we've  mines  of  ster- 
ling worth, 

For  sword  and  buckler,  spur  and  spear  emboweled 
in  the  earth. 

And  ere  Columbia's  sons  resign  the  boon  their 
fathers  won, 

The  polished  ore  from  every  mine  shall  glitter  in 

the  sun. 

For  bright's  the  blade  and  sharp's  the  spear 
That  Freedom's  sons  to  battle  bear! 

Let  Britain  boast  the  deeds  she's  done; 

Display  her  trophies  bright; 
And  count  her  laurels  bravely  won 

In  well  contested  fight. 
Columbia  can  array  a  band 

Will  wrest  that  laurel  wreath; 
With  truer  eye  and  steadier  hand 

Will  strike  the  blow  of  death. 
For  whether  on  the  land  or  sea 
Columbia's  fight  is  victory! 

Let  France  in  blood  through  Europe  wade, 

And  in  her  frantic  mood 
In  civil  discord  draw  the  blade 

And  spill  her  children's  blood. 


LOYALTY   TO    TRUTH.  437 

Too  dear  that  skill  in  arms  is  bought 

Where  kindred  lifeblood  flows. 
Columbia's  sons  are  only  taught 
To  triumph  o'er  their  foes, 

And  then  to  comfort,  soothe,  and  save 
The  feelings  of  the  conquered  Brave. 

Then  let  Columbia's  eagle  soar, 

And  bear  her  banner  high, 
The  thunder  from  her  right  hand  pour 

And  lightning  from  her  eye. 
And  when  she  sees  from  realms  above 

The  storm  of  war  is  spent, 
Descending  like  the  welcome  dove 

The  olive  branch  present, 

And  then  shall  Beauty's  hand  divine 
The  never  fading  wreath  entwine! 


LOYALTY   TO   TRUTH. 

By  ANNA  H.  SHAW,  Clergyman,  Author,  Lecturer.  B. 
1847;  lives  in  Michigan.  Vice  President  at  large  of  Na- 
tional American  Woman's  Suffrage  Association. 

Extract  from  sermon  preached  in  the  hall  of  Washing- 
ton, Chicago,  on  Sunday  morning,  May  21,  1893. 

IT  has  been  said  that  it  is  the  greatest  sacrifice 
one  can  make  for  a  friend  to  give  up  one's  life  for 
one's  love;  to  sacrifice  one's  life;  to  lay  down  your 
own  to  find  it  in  the  good  of  another.  But  how 
much  richer,  how  much  holier,  is  the  praise  of 
her  who  lays  down  her  own  good,  who  sacrifices 


438  LOYALTY   TO   TRUTH. 

it  for  the  good  of  another  unknown,  or  for  the 
good  of  a  nation  yet  unborn.  This  is  the  highest 
test  of  loyalty  to  truth.  So  that  whether  that 
which  you  have  in  your  soul  to-day,  which  burns 
like  a  living  flame,  shall  be  accepted  by  the  race 
or  not — if  you  lay  down  your  own  good  for  the 
good  of  a  race  that  shall  be,  then  you  have  mani- 
fested the  greatest  loyalty  to  truth  that  can  be 
manifested  by  anyone,  and  the  truth  has  come,  and 
your  reward  shall  be  the  love  of  a  people. 

Do  not  now  say  I  lift  the  standard  too  high. 
The  standard  of  God  cannot  be  lifted  too  high. 
The  standard  of  truth  must  ever  be  high  above  the 
standards  of  the  world,  and  the  standard-bearers 
of  truth  must  ever  be  in  advance  of  the  great  march 
of  the  world  behind  them.  Therefore,  "do  not  lower 
your  standard  one  inch.  Do  not  stay  your  prog- 
ress one  moment.  Do  not  hesitate  or  falter,  but 
remember  the  words  of  the  young  color-bearer  in 
our  late  war,  who,  when  the  standard-bearer  of  his 
regiment  was  shot  down,  sprang  forward,  caught 
the  colors  ere  they  reached  the  ground,  and  then, 
thrilled  with  enthusiasm,  pressed  on  before,  on,  on, 
up  the  hill  toward  the  rampart  upon  which  they 
were  charging.  Seeing  him  go  faster  than  the  men 
could  follow,  the  colonel  shouted  out:  "  Bring  back 
those  colors!"  But  without  faltering  he  glanced 
back  and  cried,  "  No,  colonel,  bring  your  men  up 
to  the  colors!  "  And  on  he  went  and  planted  the 
colors,  and  the  men  gathered  around  the  flag  of 
their  country. 


MATER  AMABILIS.  439 

And  so,  my  sisters,  do  not  falter;  and  when  they 
cry,  "  The  world  is  not  ready,  the  world  has  not 
been  educated  up  to  your  truth,"  call  back  to  the 
world,  "  We  cannot  lower  our  standard  to  the  level 
of  the  world.  Bring  your  old  world  up  to  the  level 
of  our  standard."  Then  shall  the  people  of  the 
world  be  lifted  nearer  to  God,  near  the  glory  which 
evermore  surrounds  truth,  near  the  eternal  peace  of 
God  flowing  like  a  mighty  river,  near  in  heart  and 
soul  to  the  truth  and  the  source  of  all  truth,  the 
infinite  love  of  Divinity  itself. 


MATER  AMABILIS. 

By  EMMA  LAZARUS,  Poet.     B.  1849,  New  York  ;  d.  1887. 
Copyright  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

DOWN  the  goldenest  of  streams, 

Tide  of  dreams, 

The  fair  cradled  man-child  drifts; 
Sways  with  cadenced  motion  slow, 

To  and  fro, 
As  the  mother-foot  poised  lightly,  falls  and  lifts. 

He,  the  firstling, — he,  the  light 

Of  her  sight, — 

He,  the  breathing  pledge  of  love, 
'Neath  the  holy  passion  lies, 

Of  her  eyes, — 
Smiles  to  feel  the  warm,  life-giving  ray  above. 


44°  MATER  AMABIIJS. 

She  believes  that  in  his  vision, 

Skies  elysian 

O'er  an  angel-people  shine. 
Back  to  gardens  of  delight, 

Taking  flight, 
His  auroral  spirit  basks  in  dreams  divine. 

But  she  smiles  through  anxious  tears; 

Unborn  years 

Pressing  forward,  she  perceives. 
Shadowy  muffled  shapes,  they  come 

Deaf  and  dumb, 

Bringing  what?  dry  chaff  and  tares,  or  full-eared 
sheaves? 

What  for  him  shall  she  invoke? 

Shall  the  oak 

Bind  the  man's  triumphant  brow? 
Shall  his  daring  foot  alight 

On  the  height? 
Shall  he  dwell  amidst  the  humble  and  the  low? 

Through  what  tears  and  sweat  and  pain, 

Must  he  gain 

Fruitage  from  the  tree  of  life? 
Shall  it  yield  him  bitter  flavor? 

Shall  its  savor 
Be  as  manna  midst  the  turmoil  and  the  strife? 

In  his  cradle  slept  and  smiled 

Thus  the  child 
Who  as  Prince  of  Peace  was  hailed. 


MY  DELFTWARE  MAID.  44* 

Thus  anig-h  the  mother  breast, 

Lulled  to  rest, 
Child-Napoleon  down  the  lilied  river  sailed. 

Crowned  or  crucified — the  same 

Glows  the  flame 
Of  her  deathless  love  divine. 
Still  the  blessed  mother  stands, 

In  all  lands, 
As  she  watched  beside  thy  cradle  and  by  mine. 

Whatso  gifts  the  years  bestow, 

Still  men  know, 

While  she  breathes,  lives  one  who  sees 
(Stand  they  pure  or  sin-defiled) 

But  the  child 

Whom  she  crooned  to  sleep  and  rocked  upon  her 
knees. 


MY  DELFTWARE  MAID. 
By  RALPH  ALTON.     Reproduced  from  Truth. 

WHERE  the  windmills  swing  by  the  Zuyder  Zee, 
There's  a  dear  little  maiden  waits  for  me, 
Near  the  twisted  trunk  of  an  azure  tree, 
With  a  quaint  little  smile  to  meet  her  fate, 
By  the  blue  canal  on  my  tinted  plate. 

"Now,  the  maid's  cerulean  as  can  be, 
From  her  sabots  small  to  her  pigtails  free, 
And  she  looks  so  happy  and  full  of  glee, 


442        THE  MAtf   WITHOUT  A   COUNTRY. 

And  she's  so  content  just  to  hope  and  wait 
Till  I  come  to  her  home  on  the  tiny  plate. 

Ah,  she  little  knows  that  I  try  to  flee 
From  her  sky-blue  land  by  the  Zuyder  Zee. 
And  it's  strange,  but  she  never  seems  to  see 
That  unless  I'm  blue  I  can  never  mate 
With  my  little  lass  on  the  delftvvare  plate. 


THE  MAN  WITHOUT  A  COUNTRY. 

By  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE,  Clergyman,  Historian, 
Author.  B.  1822,  Massachusetts. 

An  extract  from  his  novel,  "  The  Man  Without  a  Coun- 
try," published  anonymously  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  in 
1863,  and  now  regarded  as  among  the  classic  short  stories  of 
American  writers. 

Philip  Nolan,  a  young  officer  of  the  United  States  Army, 
because  of  intimacy  with  Aaron  Burr  is  banished  from  his 
country  by  a  court  martial  and  condemned  to  live  upon  a 
government  vessel,  where  he  is  never  allowed  to  hear  the 
name  of  his  country. 

I  FIRST  came  to  understand  anything  about  "  the 
man  without  a  country  "  one  day  when  we  over- 
hauled a  dirty  little  schooner  which  had  slaves  on 
board.  An  officer  was  sent  to  take  charge  of  her, 
and,  after  a  few  minutes,  he  sent  back  his  boat  to 
ask  that  someone  might  be  sent  him  who  could  talk 
Portuguese.  But  none  of  the  officers  did;  and  just 
as  the  captain  was  sending  forward  to  ask  if  any  of 
the  people  could,  Nolan  stepped  out  and  said  he 
should  be  glad  to  interpret,  if  the  captain  wished, 
as  he  understood  the  language.  The  captain 


THE  MAN   WITHOUT  A    COUNTRY.        443 

thanked  him,  fitted  out  another  boat  with  him,  and 
in  this  boat  it  was  my  luck  to  go. 

There  were  not  a  great  many  of  the  negroes; 
most  of  them  were  out  of  the  hold  and  swarming  all 
round  the  dirty  deck,  with  a  central  throng  sur- 
rounding Vaughan.  "  Tell  them  they  are  free, 
Nolan,"  said  Vaughan;  "and  tell  them  that  I  will 
take  them  all  to  Cape  Palmas." 

Cape  Palmas  was  practically  as  far  from  the 
homes  of  most  of  them  as  New  Orleans  or  Rio 
Janeiro  was;  that  is,  they  would  be  eternally  sepa- 
rated from  home  there.  And  their  interpreters,  as 
we  could  understand,  instantly  said,  "  Ah,  non 
Palmas."  The  drops  stood  on  poor  Nolan's  white 
forehead,  as  he  hushed  the  men  down,  and  said: 

"  He  says,  '  Not  Palmas.'  He  says,  '  Take  us 
home,  take  us  to  our  own  country,  take  us  to  our 
own  house,  take  us  to  our  own  pickaninnies  and 
our  own  women.'  He  says  he  has  an  old  father  and 
mother  who  will  die  if  they  do  not  see  him.  And 
this  one  says,"  choked  out  Nolan,  "  that  he  has  not 
heard  a  word  from  his  home  in  six  months." 

Even  the  negroes  stopped  howling,  as  they  saw 
Nolan's  agony,  and  Vaughan's  almost  equal  agony 
of  sympathy.  As  quick  as  he  could  get  words, 
Vaughan  said: 

"  Tell  them,  yes,  yes,  yes;  tell  them  they  shall  go 
to  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  if  they  will." 

And  after  some  fashion  Nolan  said  so.  And 
then  they  all  fell  to  kissing  him  again. 

But   he   could   not   stand   it   long;  and   getting 


444         THE  MAN   WITHOUT  A    COUNTRY. 

Vaughan  to  say  he  might  go  back,  he  beckoned  me 
down  into  our  boat.  As  we  lay  back  in  the  stern- 
sheets  and  the  men  gave  way,  he  said  to  me: 
"  Youngster,  let  that  show  you  what  it  is  to  be  with- 
out a  family,  without  a  home,  and  without  a  coun- 
try. And  if  you  are  ever  tempted  to  say  a  word  or 
to  do  a  thing  that  shall  put  a  bar  between  you  and 
your  family,  your  home,  and  your  country,  pray 
God  in  his  mercy  to  take  you  that  instant  home  to 
his  own  heaven.  Think  of  your  home,  boy;  write 
and  send,  and  talk  about  it.  Let  it  be  nearer  and 
nearer  to  your  thought,  the  farther  you  have  to 
travel  from  it;  and  rush  back  to  it  when  you  are 
free,  as  that  poor  black  slave  is  doing  now.  And 
for  your  country,  boy,"  and  the  words  rattled  in  his 
throat,  "  and  for  that  flag,"  and  he  pointed  to  the 
ship,  "  never  dream  a  dream  but  of  serving  her  as 
she  bids  you,  though  the  service  carry  you  through 
a  thousand  terrors.  No  matter  what  happens  to 
you,  no  matter  who  flatters  you  or  who  abuses  you, 
never  look  at  another  flag,  never  let  a  night  pass 
but  you  pray  God  to  bless  that  flag.  Remember, 
that  behind  all  these  men  you  have  to  do  with, — 
behind  officers,  and  government,  and  people  even — 
there  is  the  Country  Herself,  your  Country,  and 
that  you  belong  to  Her  as  you  belong  to  your  own 
mother." 


TEMPERED.  445 

TEMPERED. 

By  SARAH  CHAUNCEY  WOOLSEY  (SUSAN  COOLIDGE),  Poet. 
B.  1835,  Ohio  ;  lives  at  Newport,  R.  I. 
This  poem  was  written  for  The  Congregationalist. 

WHEN  stern  occasion  calls  for  war, 

And  the  trumpets  shrill  and  peal, 
Forges  and  armories  ring  all  day 

With  the  fierce  clash  of  steel. 
The  blades  are  heated  in  the  flame, 

And  cooled  in  icy  flood, 
And  beaten  hard,  and  beaten  well, 
To  make  them  firm  and  pliable, 

Their  edge  and  temper  good; 
Then  tough  and  sharp  with  discipline, 
They  win  the  fight  for  fighting  men. 

When  God's  occasions  call  for  men, 

His  chosen  souls  he  takes, 
In  life's  hot  fire  he  tempers  them, 

With  tears  he  cools  and  slakes; 
With  many  a  heavy,  grievous  stroke 

He  beats  them  to  an  edge, 
And  tests  and  tries,  again,  again, 
Till  the  hard  will  is  fused,  and  pain 

Becomes  high  privilege; 

Then  strong,  and  quickened  through  and  through, 
They  ready  are  his  work  to  do. 

Like  an  on-rushing,  furious  host 

The  tide  of  need  and  sin, 
Unless  the  blades  shall  tempered  be, 

They  have  no  chance  to  win; 


446  IMAGINATION  AND  FANCY. 

God  trusts  to  no  untested  sword 

When  he  goes  forth  to  war; 
Only  the  souls  that,  beaten  long 
On  pain's  great  anvil,  have  grown  strong, 

His  chosen  weapons  are. 
•Ah,  souls,  on  pain's  great  anvil  laid, 
Remember  this,  nor  be  afraid! 


IMAGINATION  AND   FANCY. 

By  PROFESSOR  CHARLES  CARROLL  EVERETT,  Clergyman, 
Theologian.  B.  1829,  Maine.  Delivered  before  the  Radical 
Club  (1867-80)  in  Boston. 

The  Radical  Club  had  its  origin  in  the  spring  of  1867.  in 
the  growing  desire  of  certain  ministers  and  laymen  for 
larger  liberty  of  faith,  fellowship,  and  communion. 

THE  imagination  follows  the  lines  of  Nature! 
The  fancy  works  more  independently,  forsaking  the 
intent  of  Nature  and  adapting  ends  of  its  own, 
combining  the  elements  of  Nature  arbitrarily  and 
artificially.  The  fancy  brought  together  parts  of 
the  man  and  of  the  horse,  and  created  the  Centaur; 
imagination  created  the  Apollo. 

The  world  of  fancy  is  a  world  apart  by  itself, 
while  the  world  of  imagination  may  be  more 
natural  than  that  of  Nature  itself.  The  grandest 
discoveries  of  science  were  made  when  it  had  left 
the  regions  of  the  seen  and  the  known  and  followed 
the  imagination  by  new  paths  to  regions  before 
unseen.  Newton,  watching  the  fall  of  the  apple, 
began  dreaming  of  the  movement  of  the  stars.  His 


IMAGINATION  AND  FANCY.  447 

imagination  leaped  to  a  conception  which  embraced 
th :  universe.  The  discoveries  of  science  became 
to  the  minds  of  most  men  hard,  cold,  prosaic  facts. 
It  is  forgotten  that  when  they  first  dawned  they 
came  as  poetry,  and  were  the  outgrowth  of  the 
imagination — the  poetic  faculty. 

Not  only  is  the  imagination  thus  efficient  in 
science,  but  in  the  practical  affairs  of  life  it  fills  a 
place  no  less  important.  The  man  of  affairs  ;.s 
largely  dependent  for  his  success  on  the  powers  of 
the  imagination.  It  is  less  by  a  process  of  con- 
scious reasoning  than  by  the  flash  of  intuition  that 
he  lays  his  vastest  plans.  There  is  a  genius  in 
affairs  as  truly  as  in  literature  or  art;  but  it  is  imagi- 
nation, and  not  fancy.  The  man  of  fancy  also 
dreams  dreams  and  risks  his  money  on  their  truth, 
but  has  left  only  the  memory  of  his  wasted  means 
and  of  his  palace  in  the  clouds.  The  poet  or  the 
student,  living  largely  in  the  regions  of  the  imagi- 
nation, wonders  how  life  is  possible  amid  its  cold, 
hard  realities  without  the  play  of  the  imagination. 
He  is  right  in  this,  but  wrong  in  supposing  that  the 
imagination  is  excluded  from  these  so-called  prac- 
tical affairs.  It  is  looked  upon  by  its  masters  as  a 
good  servant,  if  well-trained. 

But  is  the  imagination  merely  a  servant?  To 
whom  does  the  world  rightfully  belong?  As  it 
exists  for  us,  it  is  the  creation  of  the  imagination. 
She  lends  it  to  science,  to  analyze,  to  reason  about. 
She  lends  it  to  business  to  work  or  to  play  with. 
But  when,  because  she  is  thus  helpful,  she  is  treated 


448  IMAGINATION  AND  FANCY. 

as  a  servant  only,  she  may  well  assert  the  right  of 
sovereignty.  Art  and  poetry  are  the  methods  of 
the  imagination,  and  these  complete  the  world. 
Art  gives  us  the  ideal  man,  life,  and  Nature.  As 
we  look  upon  them  we  feel  that  this  is  the  real  man, 
the  real  life,  the  real  Nature. 

The  perfect  man  is  the  ideal  man;  the  perfect 
life,  as  yet  largely  a  dream  life,  the  ideal  life.  It  is 
the  goal  of  humanity.  I  believe  in  all  that  the 
botanist  tells  about  the  flowers;  but  if  he  sees  noth- 
ing more  in  the  flowers  than  his  analysis  can  show 
him,  then  the  little  child  who  claps  its  hand  in  de- 
light at  the  beauty  of  the  first  blossom  of  the  spring 
sees  the  flower  more  truly  than  he  does. 

The  ideal  is  more  real  than  the  actual;  it  destroys 
the  actual  that  it  may  fulfill  itself.  The  oak  which 
the  little  sapling  tecame  is  more  real  than  the  sap- 
ling, for  the  sapling  yielded  to  its  power  and  be- 
came the  oak. 

The  imagination,  first  the  explorer  and  then  the 
poet  of  the  race,  became  at  last  its  seer,  its  prophet, 
and  its  priest.  The  senses  give  us  only  a  confused 
series  of  sensations;  the  understanding  gives  us 
only  lifeless  fragments;  the  imagination  gives  us 
the  universe  in  its  wholeness,  and  transforms  it  into 
the  living  garments  of  divinity. 


LIBI-.RTY.  449 

LIBERTY. 

By  JOHN  HAY,  Poet,  Author,  Lawyer,  Diplomat,  Soldier. 
B.  1835,  Indiana  ;  resides  in  London  as  Ambassador  from 
the  United  States  to  England. 

Colonel  Hay,  in  collaboration  with  John  G.  Nicolay,  is 
the  author  of  a  "  History  of  the  Administration  of  Abraham 
Lincoln."  He  has  written,  also,  "  Pike  County  Ballads." 

WHAT  man  is  there  so  bold  that  he  should  say, 

"  Thus  and  thus  only  would  I  have  the  sea!  " 

For  whether  lying  calm  and  beautiful, 

Clasping  the  earth  in  love,  and  throwing  back 

The  smile  of  heaven  from  \vaves  of  amethyst 

Or  whether,  freshened  by  the  busy  winds, 

It  bears  the  trade  and  navies  of  the  world 

To  ends  of  use  and  stern  activity; 

Or  whether,  lashed  by  tempests,  it  gives  way 

To  elemental  fury,  howls  and  roars 

At  all  its  rocky  barriers,  in  wild  lust 

Of  ruin  drinks  the  blood  of  living  things, 

And   strews   its   wrecks  o'er  leagues   of   desolate 

shore ; 

Always  it  is  the  sea,  and  all  bow  down 
Before  its  vast  and  varied  majesty. 

And  so  in  vain  will  timorous  men  essay 
To  set  the  metes  and  bounds  of  Liberty, 
For  Freedom  is  its  own  eternal  law, 
It  makes  its  own  conditions,  and  in  storm 
Or  calm  alike  fulfills  the  unerring  Will. 
Let  us  not  then  despise  it  when  it  lies 
Still  as  a  sleeping  lion,  while  a  swarm 


45°  THE   HAPPIEST   TIMf-.    IN  LIFE. 

Of  gnat-like  evils  hovers  round  its  head; 

Nor  doubt  it  when  in  mad,  disjointed  times 

It  shakes  the  torch  of  terror,  and  its  cry 

Shrills  o'er  the  quaking  earth,  and  in  the  flame 

Of  riot  and  war  we  see  its  awful  form 

Rise  by  the  scaffold,  where  the  crimson  ax 

Rings  down  its  grooves  the  knell  of  shuddering 

kings. 

For  always  in  thine  eyes,  O  Liberty! 
Shines  that  high  light  whereby  the  world  is  saved; 
And,  tho'  thou  slay  us,  we  will  trust  in  thee! 


THE   HAPPIEST  TIME   IN   LIFE. 

By  RICHARI)  SALTER  STORKS,  Clergyman,  Author.  B. 
1821,  Massachusetts ;  pastor  Church  of  The  Pilgrims, 
Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 

From  an  address  delivered  on  the  occasion  of  the  fiftieth 
anniversary  of  his  pastorate. 

"  Churchmen  have  held  services  to  testify  their  reverence 
for  him  as  a  Christian  leader  ;  clubmen  have  entertained 
him  to  show  their  esteem  for  him  as  a  man,  and  yesterday 
the  children  came  trooping  to  greet  him  as  a  father." 

AND  now  I  want  to  say  a  word  or  two  to  those 
who  are  in  the  morning  of  life.  One  is  that  they 
are  never  to  believe  what  is  sometimes  said,  that 
childhood  is  the  best  and  happiest  time  in  life.  It 
is  not  true.  I  had  as  happy  a  childhood  as  falls  to 
the  lot  of  most  children;  and  many  a  time  it  has 
been  said  to  me  by  those  who  were  visiting  at  my 
father's  house:  "  This  is  the  happiest  time  in  life  for 
you."  I  did  not  believe  it  then,  I  did  not  believe  it 


FATHER'S    VOICE.  45  I 

as  I  grew  older,  and  I  know  now  that  it  was  not 
true.  The  happiest  time  in  your  life  is  to  corae 
hereafter.  If  you  try  to  do  that  which  is  right  and 
useful  to  others,  that  which  is  honorable  to  yourself, 
and  that  which  is  for  the  glory  and  praise  of  your 
God,  every  year  of  your  life  will  be  happier  than 
that  which  went  before  it.  So  do  not  feel  that  you 
are  entering  an  oppressive,  grinding,  hateful  world. 
Life  on  earth  grows  better  and  sweeter  as  one  goes 
on  in  it,  and  what  you  are  to  do  is  to  try  to  make  a 
success  of  that  life,  each  one  of  you.  Success  does 
not  imply  necessarily  the  finest  circumstances  that 
can  be  gathered  around  you,  but  it  requires  that 
your  conscience  tell  you  day  by  day  that  you  are 
trying  to  do  the  duty  which  God  has  assigned  to 
you  in  his  providence,  and  that  you  are  trying  to 
grow  in  the  knowledge  of  him  and  in  fellowship 
with  him.  That  is  success  in  life,  and  that  is 
within  reach  of  every  human  soul  to  whom  the 
grace  of  God  comes,  and  who  by  God's  kindness 
and  providence  is  to  be  maintained  in  the  experi- 
ence of  life. 


FATHER'S  VOICE. 

ANONYMOUS. 

YEARS  an'  years  ago,  when  I 

Was  just  a  little  lad, 
An'  after  school  hours  used  to  work 

Around  the  farm  with  dad, 


45 2  FATHER'S    VOICE. 

I  used  to  be  so  wearied  out 

When  eventide  was  come 
That  I  got  kinder  anxious-like 

About  the  journey  home; 
But  dad,  he  used  to  lead  the  way, 

An',  once  in  a  while  turn  'round  an'  say, 
So  cheerin'-like,  so  tender — "  Come ! 

Come  on,  my  son,  you're  nearly  home!  " 
That  allers  used  to  help  me  some; 

An  so  I  followed  father  home. 
I'm  old  an'  gray  an'  feeble  now, 

An'  trimbly  at  the  knee, 
But  life  seems  jest  the  same  to-day 

As  then  it  seemed  to  me, 
For  I  am  still  so  wearied  out 

When  eventide  is  come, 
An'  still  get  kinder  anxious-like 

About  the  journey  home; 
But  still  my  Father  leads  the  way, 

An'  once  an'  a  while  I  hear  him  say — 
So  cheerin'-like,  so  tender — "  Come! 

Come  on,  my  son,  you're  nearly  home! " 
An'  same  as  then,  that  helps  me  some; 

An'  so  I'm  following  Father  home. 


MORAL   LAW  FOR  NATIONS.  453 

MORAL   LAW   FOR   NATIONS. 

By  JOHN  BRIGHT,  Orator,  Statesman.  B.  1811,  England  ; 
d.  1889,  England. 

THERE  is  no  permanent  greatness  to  a  nation, 
except  it  be  based  upon  morality.  Crowns,  coro- 
nets, miters,  military  display,  the  pomp  of  war,  wide 
colonies,  and  a  huge  empire,  are,  in  my  view,  trifles 
light  as  air,  and  not  worth  considering,  unless  with 
them  you  can  have  a  fair  share  of  comfort,  content- 
ment, and  happiness  among  the  great  body  of  the 
people.  Palaces,  baronial  castles,  great  halls, 
stately  mansions,  do  not  make  a  nation.  The  nation 
in  every  country  dwells  in  the  cottage;  and  unless 
the  light  of  your  Constitution  can  shine  there,  un- 
less the  beauty  of  your  legislation  and  the  excel- 
lence of  your  statesmanship  are  impressed  there  on 
the  feelings  and  conditions  of  the  people,  rely  upon 
it,  you  have  yet  to  learn  the  duties  of  government. 
I  have  not,  as  you  have  observed,  pleaded  that  this 
country  should  remain  without  adequate  and  scien- 
tific means  of  defense.  I  acknowledge  it  to  be  the 
duty  of  your  statesmen,  acting  upon  the  known 
opinions  and  principles  of  ninety-nine  out  of  every 
hundred  persons  in  the  country,  at  all  times,  with  all 
possible  moderation,  but  with  all  possible  efficiency, 
to  take  steps  which  shall  preserve  order  within  and 
on  the  confines  of  your  kingdom.  But  I  shall  re- 
pudiate and  denounce  the  expenditure  of  every 
shilling,  the  engagement  of  every  man,  the  employ- 
ment of  every  ship,  which  has  no  object  but  inter- 


454  MORAL   LAW  FOR  NATIONS. 

meddling  in  the  affairs  of  other  countries,  and 
endeavoring  to  extend  the  boundaries  of  the 
Empire,  which  is  already  large  enough  to  satisfy  the 
greatest  ambition,  and,  I  fear,  is  much  too  large  for 
the  highest  statesmanship  to  which  any  man  has  yet 
attained.  The  most  ancient  of  profane  historians 
has  told  us  that  the  Scythians  of  his  time  were  a 
very  warlike  people,  and  that  they  elevated  an 
old  scimiter  upon  a  platform  as  a  symbol  of  Mars; 
for  to  Mars  alone,  I  believe,  they  built  altars  and 
offered  sacrifices.  To  this  scimiter  they  offered 
sacrifices  of  horses  and  cattle,  the  main  wealth  of 
the  country,  and  more  costly  sacrifices  than  to  all 
the  rest  of  their  gods.  I  often  ask  myself  whether 
we  are  at  all  advanced  in  one  respect  beyond  those 
Scythians.  What  are  our  contributions  to  charity, 
to  education,  to  morality,  to  religion,  to  justice,  and 
to  civil  government,  when  compared  with  the 
wealth  we  expend  in  sacrifices  to  the  old  scimi- 
ter? ...  May  I  ask  you  to  believe,  as  I  do  most 
devoutly  believe,  that  the  moral  law  was  not  writ- 
ten for  men  alone  in  their  individual  character,  but 
that  it  was  written  as  well  for  nations,  and  for  na- 
tions great  as  this  of  which  we  are  citizens.  If 
nations  reject  and  deride  that  moral  law,  there  is  a 
penalty  which  will  inevitably  follow.  It  may  not 
come  at  once,  it  may  not  come  in  our  lifetime;  but, 
rely  upon  it,  the  great  Italian  is  not  a  poet  only, 
but  a  prophet,  when  he  says: 

"  The  sword  of  heaven  is  not  in  haste  to  smite, 
Nor  yet  doth  linger." 


THE  BOY  OF    THE  HOUSE.  455 

We  have  experience,  we  have  beacons,  we  have 
landmarks  enough.  We  know  what  the  past  has 
cost  us,  we  know  how  much  and  how  far  we  have 
wandered,  but  we  are  not  left  without  a  guide.  It 
is  true  we  have  not,  as  the  ancient  people  had,  Urim 
and  Thummim — those  oraculous  gems  on  Aaron's 
breast — from  which  to  take  counsel,  but  we  have 
the  unchangeable  and  eternal  principles  of  the 
moral  law  to  guide  us,  and  only  so  far  as  we  walk 
by  that  guidance  can  we  be  permanently  a  great 
nation,  or  our  people  a  happy  people." 


THE  BOY  OF  THE  HOUSE. 

By  JEAN  BLEWETT.    From  the  Toronto  Globe. 

HE  was  the  boy  of  the  house,  you  know, 

A  jolly  and  rollicking  lad, 
He  was  never  tired,  and  never  sick, 

And  nothing  could  make  him  sad. 

If  he  started  to  play  at  sunrise 

Not  a  rest  would  he  take  at  noon; 

No  day  was  so  long  from  beginning  to  end 
But  his  bedtime  came  too  soon. 

Did  someone  urge  that  he  make  less  noise, 
He  would  say,  with  a  saucy  grin, 

"  Why,  one  boy  alone  doesn't  make  much  stir- 
I'm  sorry  I  isn't  a  twin! 


456  THE  BOY  OF    THE  HOUSE, 

"  There's  two  of  twins — oh,  it  must  be  fun 

To  go  double  at  everything: 
To  holler  by  twos,  and  to  run  by  twos, 

To  whistle  by  twos,  and  to  sing !  " 

His  laugh  was  something  to  make  you  glad, 

So  brimful  was  it  of  joy. 
A  conscience  he  had,  perhaps,  in  his  breast, 

But  it  never  troubled  the  boy. 

You  met  him  out  in  the  garden  path, 

With  the  terrier  at  his  heels; 
You  knew  by  the  shout  he  hailed  you  with 

How  happy  a  youngster  feels. 

The  maiden  auntie  was  half  distraught 
At  his  tricks  as  the  days  went  by; 

"  The  most  mischievous  child  in  the  world! " 
She  said,  with  a  shrug  and  a  sigh. 

His  father  owned  that  her  words  were  true 
And  his  mother  declared  each  day 

Was  putting  wrinkles  into  her  face, 
And  was  turning  her  brown  hair  gray. 

His  grown-up  sister  referred  to  him 

As  a  trouble,  a  trial,  a  grief, 
"  The  way  he  ignored  all  rules,"  she  said, 

"  Was  something  beyond  belief." 

But  it  never  troubled  the  boy  of  the  house 

He  reveled  in  clatter  and  din, 
And  had  only  one  regret  in  the  world — 

That  he  hadn't  been  born  a  twin. 


THE  BOY  OF   THE  HOUSE.  457 

There's  nobody  making  a  noise  to-day, 
There's  nobody  stamping  the  floor, 

There's  an  awful  silence,  upstairs  and  down, 
There's  crape  on  the  wide  hall  door. 

The  terrier's  whining  out  in  the  sun — 

"  Where's  my  comrade?  "  he  seems  to  say; 

Turn  your  plaintive  eyes  away,  little  dog, 
There's  no  frolic  for  you  to-day. 

The  freckle-faced  girl  from  the  house  next  door 

Is  sobbing  her  young  heart  out. 
Don't  cry,  little  girl,  you'll  soon  forget 

To  miss  the  laugh  and  the  shout. 

The  grown-up  sister  is  kissing  his  face, 
And  calling  him  "  darling  "  and  "  sweet," 

The  maiden  aunt  is  holding  the  shoes 
That  he  wore  on  his  restless  feet. 

How  strangely  quiet  the  little  form, 
With  the  hands  on  the  bosom  crossed! 

Not  a  fold,  not  a  flower,  out  of  place, 
Xot  a  short  curl  rumpled  and  tossed! 

So  solemn  and  still  the  big  house  seems — 

No  laughter,  no  racket,  no  din, 
No  startling  shriek,  no  voice  piping  out: 

"  I'm  sorry  I  isn't  a  twin!  " 

There  a  man  and  a  woman,  pale  with  grief 
As  the  w:earisome  moments  creep; 

Oh!  the  loneliness  touches  everything — 
The  boy  of  the  house  is  asleep. 


45 8  THE   GLADIATOR. 

THE  GLADIATOR. 

AKONYMOUS. 

STILLNESS  reigned  in  the  vast  amphitheater,  and 
from  the  countless  thousands  that  thronged  the 
spacious  inclosure  not  a  breath  was  heard.  Every 
tongue  was  mute  with  suspense,  and  every  eye 
strained  with  anxiety  toward  the  gloomy  portal 
where  the  gladiator  was  momentarily  expected  to 
enter.  At  length  the  trumpet  sounded,  and  they 
led  him  forth  into  the  broad  arena.  There  was  no 
mark  of  fear  upon  his  manly  countenance,  as  with 
majestic  step  and  fearless  eye  he  entered.  He 
stood  there,  like  another  Apollo,  firm  and  unbend- 
ing as  the  rigid  oak.  His  finely  proportioned  form 
was  matchless,  and  his  turgid  muscles  spoke  his 
giant  strength. 

"  I  am  here,"  he  cried,  as  his  proud  lip  curled  in 
scorn,  "to  glut  the  savage  eye  of  Rome's  proud 
populace.  Ay,  like  a  dog  you  throw  me  to  a  beast ; 
and  what  is  my  offense?  Why,  forsooth,  I  am  a 
Christian!  But  know,  ye  cannot  fright  my  soul,  for 
it  is  based  upon  a  foundation  stronger  than  the 
adamantine  rock.  Know  ye,  whose  hearts  are 
harder  than  the  flinty  stone,  my  heart  quakes  not 
with  fear;  and  here  I  aver  I  would  not  change  con- 
ditions with  the  bloodstained  Nero,  crowned 
though  he  be — not  for  the  wealth  of  Rome.  Blow 
ye  your  trumpet — I  am  ready." 

The  trumpet  sounded,  and  a  long,  low  growl  was 


THE  GLADIATOR.  459 

heard  to  proceed  from  the  cage  of  a  half-famished 
Numidian  lion,  situated  at  the  farthest  end  of  the 
arena. 

The  growl  deepened  into  a  roar  of  tremendous 
volume,  which  shook  the  enormous  edifice  to  its 
very  center.  At  that  moment  the  door  was  thrown 
open,  and  the  huge  monster  of  the  forest  sprang 
from  his  den  with  one  mighty  bound  to  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  arena.  His  eyes  blazed  with  the  bril- 
liancy of  fire,  as  he  slowly  drew  his  length  along  the 
sand  and  prepared  to  make  a  spring  upon  his  for- 
midable antagonist.  The  gladiator's  eyes  quailed 
not;  his  lip  paled  not;  but  he  stood  immovable  as 
a  statue,  waiting  the  approach  of  his  wary  foe. 

At  length  the  lion  crouched  himself  into  an  atti- 
tude for  springing,  and  leaped  full  at  the  throat  of 
the  gladiator.  But  he  was  prepared  for  him,  and 
bounding  lightly  on  one  side,  his  falchion  flashed 
for  a  moment  over  his  head,  and  in  the  next  it  was 
deeply  dyed  in  the  purple  blood  of  the  monster.  A 
roar  of  redoubled  fury  again  resounded  through  the 
spacious  amphitheater,  as  the  enraged  animal,  mad 
with  the  anguish  from  the  wound  he  had  just  re- 
ceived, wheeled  hastily  round,  and  sprang  a  second 
time  at  the  Nazarene. 

Again  was  the  falchion  of  the  cool  and  intrepid 
gladiator  deeply  planted  in  the  breast  of  his  terrible 
adversary;  but  so  sudden  had  been  the  second  at- 
tack that  it  was  impossible  to  avoid  the  full  impetus 
of  his  bound,  and  he  staggered  and  fell  upon  his 
knee.  The  monster's  paw  was  upon  his  shoulder, 


4<5o  THE   GLADIATOR. 

and  he  felt  its  hot  fiery  breath  upon  his  cheek,  as  it 
rushed  through  his  wide  distended  nostrils.  The 
Nazarene  drew  a  short  dagger  from  his  girdle,  and 
endeavored  to  regain  his  feet.  But  his  foe,  aware 
of  his  design,  precipitating  himself  upon  him,  threw 
him  with  violence  to  the  ground.  The  excitement 
of  the  populace  was  now  wrought  up  to  a  high 
pitch,  and  they  waited  the  result  with  breathless 
suspense.  A  low  growl  of  satisfaction  now  an- 
nounced the  noble  animal's  triumph,  as  he  sprang 
fiercely  upon  his  prostrate  enemy. 

But  it  was  of  a  short  duration ;  the  dagger  of  the 
gladiator  pierced  his  vitals,  and  together  they  rolled 
over  and  over,  across  the  broad  arena.  Again  the 
dagger  drank  deep  of  the  monster's  blood,  and 
again  a  roar  of  anguish  reverberated  through  the 
stately  edifice. 

The  Nazarene,  now  watching  his  opportunity, 
sprang  with  the  velocity  of  thought  from  the  ter- 
rific embrace  of  his  enfeebled  antagonist,  and  re- 
gaining his  falchion,  which  had- fallen  to  the  ground 
in  the  struggle,  he  buried  it  deep  in  the  heart  of  the 
infuriated  beast.  The  noble  king  of  the  forest, 
faint  from  the  loss  of  blood,  concentrated  all  his  re- 
maining strength  in  one  mighty  bound;  but  it  was 
too  late;  the  last  blow  had  been  driven  home  to  the 
center  of  life,  and  his  huge  form  fell  with  a  mighty 
crash  upon  the  arena,  amid  the  thundering  acclama- 
tions of  the  populace. 


THE   CANE-BO TTOM'D   CHAIR.  4°  I 

THE  CANE-BOTTOM'D  CHAIR. 

By  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY,  Novelist.     B.  1811, 
England;  d.  1863. 

Ix  tattered  old  slippers  that  toast  at  the  bars, 
And  a  ragged  old  jacket  perfumed  with  cigars, 
Away  from  the  world  and  its  toils  and  its  cares, 
I've  a  snug  little  kingdom  up  four  pair  of  stairs. 

To  mount  to  this  realm  is  a  toil,  to  be  sure, 

But  the  fire  there  is  bright  and  the  air  rather  pure; 

And  the  view  I  behold  on  a  sunshiny  day 

Is  grand  through  the  chimney-pots  over  the  way. 

This  snug  little  chamber  is  cramm'cl  in  all  nooks 
With    worthless    old    knickknacks    and    silly    old 

books, 

And  foolish  old  odds  and  foolish  old  ends, 
Crack'd  bargains  from  brokers,  cheap  keepsakes 

from  friends. 

Old    armor,    prints,    pictures,    pipes,    china    (all 

crack'd), 

Old  rickety  tables,  and  chairs  broken-backed; 
A  twopenny  treasury,  wondrous  to  see; 
What  matter?    Tis  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  me. 

Xo  better  divan  need  the  Sultan  require 
Than  the  creaking  old  sofa  that  basks  by  the  fire; 
And  'tis  wonderful,  surely,  what  music  you  get 
From  the  rickety,  ramshackle,  wheezy  spinet. 


462  THE    CANE-BOTTOM' D   CHAIR. 

That  praying-rug  came  from  a  Turcoman's  camp ; 
By  Tiber  once  twinkled  that  brazen  old  lamp; 
A  Mameluke  fierce  yonder  dagger  has  drawn; 
'Tis  a  murderous  knife  to  toast  muffins  upon. 

Long,  long,  through  the  hours,  and  the  night,  and 

the  chimes, 
Here  we  talk  of  old  books,  and  old  friends,  and  old 

times; 

As  we  sit  in  a  fog  made  of  rich  Latakie 
This  chamber  is  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  me. 

But  of  all  the  cheap  treasures  that  garnish  my  nest, 
There's  one  that  I  love  and  I  cherish  the  best : 
For  the  finest  of  couches  that's  padded  with  hair 
I  never  would  change  thee,my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

'Tis  a  bandy-legged,  high-shoulder'd,  worm-eateji 

seat, 

With  a  creaking  old  back,  and  twisted  old  feet; 
But  since  the  fair  morning  when  Fanny  sat  there, 
I  bless  thee  and  love  thee,  old  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

It  was  but  a  moment  she  sat  in  this  place, 
She'd  a  scarf  on  her  neck,  and  a  smile  on  her  face! 
A  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  rose  in  her  hair, 
And  she  sat  there,  and  bloom'd  in  my  cane-bottom'd 
chair. 

And  so  I  have  valued  my  chair  ever  since, 

Like  the  shrine  of  a  saint,  or  the  throne  of  a  prince; 


THE  MEANING  OF   VICTORY.  4^3 

Saint  Fanny  my  patroness  sweet  I  declare, 
The   queen   of  my   heart   and   my   cane-bottom'd 
chair. 

When  the  candles  burn  low,  and  the  company's 

gone, 

In  the  silence  of  night  as  I  sit  here  alone — 
I  sit  here  alone,  but  we  yet  are  a  pair — 
My  Fanny  I  see  in  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

She  comes  from  the  past  and  revisits  my  room; 
She  looks  as  she  then  did,  all  beauty  and  bloom; 
So  smiling  and  tender,  so  fresh  and  so  fair, 
And  yonder  she  sits  in  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 


THE   MEANING   OF  VICTORY. 

By  CHARLES  DEVENS,  Jurist,  Soldier.  B.  1820,  Massa- 
chusetts ;  d.  1891,  Boston. 

Selected  from  an  oration  delivered  at  Boston,  September 
17,  1877,  at  the  dedication  of  the  Soldiers'  Monument. 

IT  is  not  the  least  of  the  just  claims  that  the 
American  Revolution  has  upon  the  friends  of 
liberty  everywhere  that,  while  it  terminated  in  the 
dismemberment  of  the  British  Empire,  it  left  the 
English  a  more  free  people  than  they  would  have 
been  but  for  its  occurrence.  It  settled  for  them 
more  firmly  the  great  safeguards  of  English  liberty 
in  the  right  of  the  habeas  corpus,  the  trial  by  jury, 
and  the  great  doctrine  that  representation  must 
accompany  taxation. 


4^4  THE  MEANING  OF    VICTORY. 

I  should  deem  the  war  for  the  Union  a  failure,  I 
should  think  the  victory  won  by  these  men  \vho 
have  died  in  its  defense  barren,  if  it  should  not 
prove  in  every  larger  sense  won  for  the  South  as 
well  as  the  North. 

It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  opinion  will  be 
changed  by  edicts,  even  when  those  edicts  are 
maintained  by  force.  And  yet  already  there  are 
brave  and  reflecting  men  who  fought  against  us 
who  do  not  hesitate  to  acknowledge  that  the  end 
was  well  for  them  as  for  us.  Nor  is  there  anyone 
bold  enough  to  say,  now  that  the  system  of  slavery 
is  destroyed,  that  he  would  raise  a  hand  or  lift  a 
finger  to  replace  it.  That  the  cause  for  which  they 
have  suffered  so  much  will  still  be  dear  to  those 
who  fought  for  it,  or  with  whom  it  is  associated  by 
tender  and  affectionate  recollections  of  those  whom 
they  loved,  who  fell  in  its  defense,  is  to  be  expected. 
To  such  sentiments  and  feelings  it  is  a  matter  of 
indifference  whether  there  is  defeat  or  success. 
Certainly,  we  ourselves,  had  the  war  for  the  Union 
failed,  would  not  the  less  have  believed  it  just  and 
necessary,  nor  the  less  have  honored  the  memory 
of  those  engaged  in  it. 

On  the  fields  which  were  plowed  by  the  fierce 
artillery  the  wheat  has  been  dancing  fresh  and  fair 
in  the  breezes  of  the  summers  that  are  gone;  and 
as  the  material  evidences  of  the  conflict  pass  away, 
so  let  each  feeling  of  bitterness  disappear,  as  to- 
gether, both  North  and  South,  we  strive  to  render 
the  republic  one  whose  firm  yet  genial  sway  shall 


DECORA  770 A'  DA  Y.  4^5 

protect  with  just  and  equal  laws  each  citizen  who 
yields  obedience  to  her  power.  Asking  for  our- 
selves no  rights  that  we  do  not  freely  concede  to 
others,  demanding  no  restraints  upon  others  that 
we  do  not  readily  submit  to  ourselves,  yielding  a 
generous  obedience  to  the  Constitution  in  all  its 
parts,  both  new  and  old,  let  us  endeavor  to  lift  our- 
selves to  that  higher  level  of  patriotism  which  de- 
spises any  narrow  sectionalism,  and  rejoices  in  a 
nationality  broad  enough  to  embrace  every  section 
of  the  Union,  and  each  one  of  its  people,  whether 
high  or  humble,  rich  or  poor,  black  or  white. 


DECORATION   DAY. 

By  SUSIE  M.  I'E.yr. 

HERE  is  a  lily  and  here  is  a  rose, 

And  here  is  a  heliotrope, 
And  here  is  the  woodbine  sweet  that  grows 

On  the  garden's  sunny  slope. 

Here  is  a  bit  of  mignonette, 

And  here  is  a  geranium  red, 
A  pansy  bloom  and  a  violet 

I  found  in  a  mossy  bed. 

These  are  the  flowers  I  love  the  best, 
And  I've  brought  them  all  to  lay 

With  loving  hands  where  soldiers  rest, 
On  Decoration  Day. 


466  LIBERTY  A\'D    UNION. 

LIBERTY  AND  UNION. 

By  DANIEL  WEBSTER,  Jurist,  Statesman,  Orator.  B.  1782, 
New  Hampshire  ;  lived  in  Massachusetts  after  1804  and  in 
Washington,  D.  C. ;  d.  1852,  Massachusetts. 

I  PROFESS,  sir,  in  my  career  hitherto,  to  have 
kept  steadily  in  view  the  prosperity  and  honor  of 
the  whole  country,  and  the  preservation  of  our 
Federal  Union. 

I  have  not  allowed  myself,  sir,  to  look  beyond  the 
Union,  to  see  what  might  lie  hidden  in  the  dark 
recess  behind.  I  have  not  coolly  weighed  the 
chances  of  preserving  liberty  when  the  bonds  that 
unite  us  together  shall  be  broken  asunder.  I  have 
not  accustomed  myself  to  hang  over  the  precipice 
of  disunion,  to  see  whether,  with  my  short  sight,  I 
can  fathom  the  depths  of  the  abyss  below;  nor 
could  I  regard  him  as  a  safe  counselor  in  the  affairs 
of  this  government  whose  thoughts  should  be 
mainly  bent  on  considering,  not  how  the  Union 
may  be  best  preserved,  but  how  tolerable  might  be 
the  condition  of  the  people  when  it  should  be 
broken  up  and  destroyed. 

While  the  Union  lasts,  we  have  high,  exciting, 
gratifying  prospects  spread  out  before  us,  for  us 
and  our  children. 

Beyond  that  I  seek  not  to  penetrate  the  veil. 
God  grant  that,  in  my  day  at  least,  that  cur- 
tain may  not  rise!  God  grant  that  on  my 
vision  never  may  be  opened  what  lies  behind! 
When  my  eyes  shall  be  turned  to  behold  for 
the  last  time  the  sun  in  heaven,  may  I  not  sec 


LONGING.  467 

him  shining  on  the  broken  and  dishonored 
fragments  of  a  once  glorious  Union;  on  States 
dissevered,  discordant,  belligerent;  on  a  land  rent 
with  civil  feuds,  or  drenched,  it  may  be,  in  fraternal 
blood!  Let  their  last  feeble  and  lingering  glance 
rather  behold  the  gorgeous  ensign  of  the  republic, 
now  known  and  honored  throughout  the  earth,  still 
full  high  advanced,  its  arms  and  trophies  streaming 
in  their  original  luster,  not  a  stripe  erased  or  pol- 
luted, nor  a  single  star  obscured,  bearing  for  its 
motto  no  such  miserable  interrogatory  as,  "  What 
is  all  this  worth? ''  nor  those  other  words  of  delu- 
sion and  folly,  "  Liberty  first,  and  Union  after- 
ward " ;  but  everywhere,  spread  all  over  in  charac- 
ters of  living  light,  blazing  on  all  its  ample  folds,  as 
they  float  over  the  sea  and  over  the  land,  and  in 
every  wind  under  the  whole  heavens,  that  other 
sentiment,  dear  to  every  true  American  heart, — 
Liberty  and  Union,  now  and  forever,  one  and  in- 
separable. 


LONGING. 

By  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL,  Poet,  Critic  ;  appointed 
Professor  at  Harvard  in  1855  ;  from  1857  to  1862  Editor  of 
the  Atlantic  Monthly  ;  Editor  of  the  North  American 
Review  from  1863  to  1872  ;  Minister  to  Spain  from  1877  to 
1880  ;  and  Minister,  to  England  from  1880  to  1885.  B.  1819, 
Massachusetts  ;  d.  1891. 

OF  all  the  myriad  moods  of  mind 

That  through  the  soul  come  thronging, 

What  one  was  e'er  so  dear,  so  kind, 
So  beautiful,  as  longing? 


468  THE   EARTH'S  FIRST  MERCY. 

The  thing  we  long  for,  that  we  are 
For  one  transcendent  moment, 

Before  the  present,  poor  and  bare, 
Can  make  its  sneering  comment. 

Still  through  our  paltry  stir  and  strife 

Glows  down  the  wished  ideal, 
And  Longing  molds  in  clay  what  Life 

Carves  in  the  marble  real. 
To  let  the  new  life  in,  we  know, 

Desire  must  ope  the  portal; 
Perhaps  the  longing  to  be  so 

Helps  make  the  soul  immortal. 


THE   EARTH'S   FIRST   MERCY. 

By  JOHN   RUSKIN.     B.   1819,  London.     "The  most  elo- 
quent and  original  of  all  writers  upon  art." 

LICHEN  and  mosses  (though  these  last  in  their 
luxuriance  are  deep  and  rich  as  herbage,  yet  both 
for  the  most  part  humblest  of  the  green  things  that 
live) — how  of  these?  Meek  creatures!  the  first 
mercy  of  the  earth,  veiling  with  hushed  softness  its 
dmtless  rocks;  creatures  full  of  pity,  covering  with 
strange  and  tender  honor  the  scarred  disgrace  of 
ruin,  laying  quiet  finger  on  the  trembling  stones, 
to  teach  them  rest.  No  words  will  say  what  these 
mosses  are.  None  are  delicate  enough,  none  per- 
fect enough,  none  rich  enough.  How  is  one  to 
tell  of  the  rounded  bosses  of  furred  and  beaming 


THE  EARTH'S  FIRST  MERCY.  4^9 

green — the  starred  divisions  of  rubied  bloom,  fine- 
filmed,  as  if  the  Rock  Spirits  could  spin  porphyry 
as  we  do  glass — the  traceries  of  intricate  silver,  and 
fringes  of  amber,  lustrous,  arborescent,  burnished 
through  every  fiber  into  fitful  brightness,  yet  all 
subdued  and  pensive,  and  framed  for  simplest, 
sweetest  offices  of  grace.  They  will  not  be  gath- 
ered, like  the  flowers,  for  chaplet  or  love-token;  but 
of  these  the  wild  bird  will  make  its  nest,  and  the 
wearied  child  his  pillow. 

And,  as  the  earth's  first  mercy,  so  they  are  its 
la;  t  gift  to  us.  When  all  other  service  is  vain,  from 
plant  and  tree,  the  soft  mosses  and  gray  lichen  take 
up  their  watch  by  the  headstone.  The  woods,  the 
blossoms,  the  gift-bearing  grasses,  have  done  their 
parts  for  a  time,  but  these  do  service  forever. 
Trees  for  the  builder's  yard,  flowers  for  the  bride's 
chamber,  corn  for  the  granary,  moss  for  the  grave. 

Yet  as  in  one  sense  the  humblest,  in  another  they 
are  the  most  honored  of  the  earth-children.  Strong 
in  lowliness,  they  neither  blanch  in  heat  nor  pine 
in  frost.  To  them,  slow-fingered,  constant-hearted, 
is.  intrusted  the  weaving  of  the  dark,  eternal  tapes- 
tries of  the  hills;  to  them,  slow-penciled,  iris-dyed, 
tender  framing  of  their  endless  imagery.  Sharing 
the  stillness  of  the  unimpassioned  rock,  they  share 
also  its  endurance;  and  while  the  winds  of  depart- 
ing spring  scatter  the  white  hawthorn  blossoms 
like  drifted  snow,  and  summer  dims  on  the  parched 
meadow  the  drooping  of  its  cowslip  gold — far 
above,  among  the  mountains,  the  silver  lichen- 


47°  SELF-DEPENDENCE. 

spots  rest,  star-like,  on  the  stone,  and  the  gathering 
orange-stain  upon  the  edge  of  yonder  western  peak 
reflects  the  sunsets  of  a  thousand  years. 


SELF-DEPENDENCE. 

By  MATTHEW  ARNOLD,  Poet,  Professor,  Essayist,  Critic. 
B.  1822,  England;  d.  1889. 

WEARY  of  myself  and  sick  of  asking 

What  I  am  and  what  I  ought  to  be, 
At  this  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which  bears  me 

Forward,  forward  o'er  the  starlit  sea. 

And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 

O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send. 

"  Ye  who  from  my  childhood  up  have  calmed  me, 
Calm  me — ah,  compose  me — to  the  end! 

"  Ah,  once  more,"  I  cried,  "  ye  stars,  ye  waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew! 

Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you, 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast,  like  you!  " 

From  the  intense,  clear,  star-sown  vault  of  heaven, 

O'er  the  moonlit  sea's  unquiet  way, 
In  the  rushing  night  air  came  the  answer: 

"  Wouldst  thou  be  as  these  are?     Live  as  they. 

"  Unaffrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 

Undisturbed  by  the  sights  they  see, 
These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them 

Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 


A    TRAGEDY  OF    THE  NORTH  SEA.         47 T 

"  And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-silvered  roll, 

For  self-poised  they  live  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 

"  Bounded  by  themselves  and  unregardful 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be, 

In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring, 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see." 

O  air-born  voice,  long  since  severely  clear, 
A  cry  like  thine  in  mine  own  heart  I  hear, 

"  Resolve  to  be  thyself  and  know  that  he 
Who  finds  himself  loses  his  misery! " 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  NORTH   SEA. 

By  JOSEPH  C.  POWELL,  Editor.     B.  1853,  Pennsylvania  ; 
resides  in  Wilkes-Barre,  Pa. 

THE  fog  had  been  so  thick,  since  early  in  the 
morning,  that  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  ob- 
jects a  few  feet  off.  The  boat  had  to  proceed  very 
slowly;  indeed,  sometimes  it  did  not  seem  to  be 
going  at  all.  The  whistle  blew  every  minute,  and 
surely  we  thought  no  drifting  craft  could  possibly 
be  harmed  by  our  steamship,  big  as  it  was.  But 
suddenly  a  little  sloop  popped  up  right  before  us. 
In  an  instant  the  prow  of  the  Bismarck  cut  it  in 
half. 

The  scenes  attending  this  tragedy — this  running 


47 2      .  A    TRAGEDY  01-    THE   NORTH  SEA. 

down  of  this  smack  and  the  attempt  at  rescuing  the 
poor  fishermen — were  so  thrilling  and  heartbreak- 
ing that  those  who  witnessed  the  occurrence  will 
never  forget  it.  As  soon  as  the  collision  occurred 
the  seamen  were  ordered  to  close  the  hatchways, 
though  the  shock  to  the  Bismarck  was  very  slight. 
Part  of  the  schooner  held  together  and  brushed 
along  the  side  of  our  ship  before  it  overturned  and 
went  down.  Five  of  the  fishermen  held  on  to  the 
rigging  and  shouted :  "  For  God's  sake  throw  us  a 
rope."  But  there  was  no  rope  at  hand.  It  seemed 
we  were  all  so  close  to  the  poor  fellows  that  we 
could  almost  reach  out  and  take  them  by  the  hand. 
But  unfortunately  it  was  a  case  jof  so  near  and  yet 
so  far.  When  the  sloop  overturned  the  fishermen 
went  down,  but  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  heard 
crying  for  help  a  few  hundred  yards  away,  but  the 
fog  was  thick  and  they  could  not  be  seen.  "  Send 
out  your  boat,"  they  shouted.  "  Why  don't  you 
hurry?"  "Help!  Help!"  These  were  the  pite- 
ous cries  we  heard  so  distinctly.  The  passengers 
were  frantic  because  so  helpless.  The  Bismarck 
was  stopped  as  quickly  as  possible,  but  a  huge 
steamer  cannot  be  brought  to  a  standstill  in  a  mo- 
-ment.  Suddenly  the  cries  for  help  ceased,  and  that 
was  ominous.  A  few  minutes  later,  however,  two 
of  the  men  could  be  seen.  They  had  life  preservers 
encircling  their  heads  and  were  bobbing  up  and 
down  with  the  waves.  They  had  drifted  so  near 
the  vessel  as  to  be  within  sight,  despite  the  fog. 
"  Come  and  help  us!  "  they  shouted.  We  answered 


THE  FRAGRANT   TIMBER   OF  HER  FAN.     473 

"The  boat  will  be  there  in  a  minute;  hold  on!" 
But  where  was  the  boat?  Our  seamen  had  been 
closing  the  hatchways,  and  it  took  some  time  to  do 
this.  Self-preservation  is  the  first  law  of  nature. 
And,  moreover,  the  boats  could  not  be  lowered  till 
the  steamer  stopped. 

And  so,  as  the  fishermen  were  shouting,  "  We 
cannot  hold  out  much  longer,"  we  were  answering 
back,  "  You  will  be  rescued  in  a  few  minutes." 
The  boat  finally  reached  two  of  them,  and  they 
were  hauled  in  more  dead  than  alive.  But  the 
others  were  lost,  and  as  soon  as  that  sad  fact  was 
realized  our  vessel  started  on  again. 


THE  FRAGRANT  TIMBER  OF  HER  FAN. 

By  HENRY  HANBY  HAY. 

THEY  call  me  the  forester,  I  am  the  man; 
Some  wood  you  want  for  your  lady's  fan? 
I've  a  hundred  fit  timbers,  so  draw  up  that  chair, 
Twas  hewn  with  an  ax.     That  cabinet  there 
Is  oak  from  the  Aja.r,  stout  timbers  and  prime, 
Compressed  to  stone  in  the  clutch  of  time. 
Forgive  the  old  fellow  (who  ought  to  be  dead), 
The  aroma  of  timber  gets  into  my  head, 
And  fills  me  with  vigor  to  such  a  degree 
I  partake  of  the  sap  and  long  life  of  the  tree. 
A  fan  for  your  lady  (that  wood  at  your  back 


474      THE  FRAGRANT   TIMBER   OF  HER  FAN. 

Won't  do?).     It  is  snakewood,  red,  spotted  with 

black. 

Too  heavy,  O — scented!  (scent,  proper  with  lace), 
For  odor's  to  wood  what  expression's  to  face; 
You   know  all   your  friends  by   their  voices,   no 

doubt, 

I  know  all  the  woods  by  the  scent  they  send  out : 
When  the  dust  from  the  sand  wheel  is  floating 

around, 

The  essence  of  each  is  transformed  to  a  sound ; 
And  the  wholesome  old  crier  who  jingles  the  bell, 
To  me  has  a  voice  as  the  spruce  shavings  smell; 
And  the  nidor  of  walnut  (the  wood  is  all  choice), 
Is  acid  and  strong  as  the  constable's  voice. 

Oh,  no,  not  so  lonely !  I  sit  here  and  laugh, 

Carving  the  head  of  my  hard  Zulu  staff; 

At  "  All  things  from  one  thing,"  as  big  scholars 

teach, 

With  fifty  fine  timbers,  all  different,  to  preach. 
And  sometimes  at  night-time  I  spell,  by  the  flame 
Of  the  trees  brewed  to  poison  (the  tree's  not  to 

blame), 
How  the  forests  bring  rain  clouds,  and  rain  clouds 

bring  breeze, 

And  the  wisdom  of  Solomon  knowing  all  trees; 
The  forests  which  grew  in  his  land,  if  you  choose, 
In  mahogany,  I  could  give  Solomon  news; 
In  his  big  cedar  palace  (best  see  at  the  start 
If  your  rafters  of  cedar  are  red  at  the  heart). 
He  knew,  in  his  wisdom,  what  leafage  cured  pain; 


THE  FRAGRANT   TIMBER  OF  HER  FAM     475 

Did  he  know  how  trees  act  'neath  the  wood-saw 

and  plane? 

Which  crumbles  like  snaps  on  the  crusty  loaf  there? 
Which  ribbon  and  curl,  like  a  little  child's  hair? 
I  suppose  he  had  carvings  where  all  things  were 

good, 

For  ripple  and  shining  there's  nothing  like  wood; 
There  are  woods  fit  for  bracelets  and  breast-knots. 

Why!  gem, — 

And  agate  and  marble  have  patterned  from  them. 
There's  something  in  woodwork  like  life,  to  my 

view, 

Well  oiled  and  well  seasoned,  it's  sure  to  be  true; 
These  panels  of  oak  are  enriched  by  my  cheer; 
How  the  floor  in  the  same  light  winks,  "  Master, 

we're  here!  " 

With  flecks  of  deep  crimson  and  eyeballs  of  black, 
With  a  slide  of  gray-whiteness,  a  deep  shining  track 
Of  ice-polished  blackness,  a  whirl  and  a  stir, — 
And  what  are  the  woods,  do  you  want  to  know, 

sir? — 

That  is  locust  dull-marked  with  butterfly's  wings; 
And  that  is  curled  maple  with  brown  and  white 

rings; 

That  is  ebony,  like  a  black  rock  wet  with  brine; 
And  that  is  stanch  ash,  with  a  satiny  shine; 
That  black  is  the  rosewood  which  wakes  into  red; 
And  the  rest  is  white  oak,  with  a  brownish  tint  wed. 
What!  part  with  my  sticks!     Not  for  gold  and  its 

mine! 
That's  a  fop  from  the  Indies,  all  marking  and  shine, 


476      THE  FRAGRANT   TIMBER   OF  HER  FAN. 

A  sort  of  fine  feather,  in  fighting  no  dab ; 

That  stick's  old  Sam  Johnson,  a  tough  piece  of 

crab; 
That  bamboo's  a   Frenchman,  it   shines   like   his 

teeth, 

'Tis  strong  on  the  surface,  but  nothing  beneath ; 
Past  doubt,   you   are   saying,   "  The   wooden   old 

man!" 

In  pay  for  your  listening,  I'll  give  you  a  fan. 
But  the  lady  (I've  got  some  fine  marking  in  roots), 
I  must  know  if  sweet  sandal,  or  satin-wood  suits. 
You  know  me:  your  face  is  like  some  foreign  tree, 
Last  week  at  the  launch:  was  it  you?     It  was  she; 
The  purple  heart's  tint  I  could  paint  on  a  tile — 
I  can  carve  out  your  lady,  her  pose  and  her  smile: 
Tall,  slender,  and  slight,  with  a  willowy  swing, 
With  a  bend  like  the  lancewood,  a  bend  and  a 

spring. 

Ah,  well !     I  suppose  if  it  must  be,  it  must — 
The  wood  will  be  beauty  when  I  shall  be  dust. 
If  a  hand  soft  and  tender  should  nurse  it  a  while, 
To  the  question  of  perfume,  the  answer  of  smile; 
There's  a  drawer  in  the  arm  of  that  massy-hewn 

chair, 

Yes;  give  me  those  ribs,  how  they  occupy  air! 
With  a  voice  of  warm  sweetness,  an  absolute  smell, 
Ay,  sandal-wood,  truly  the  name  is  a  bell. 
What  force  had  it  first  that  rich  odor  to  bind? 
Each  piece  with  heart-beating,  each  piece  has  a 

mind, 
For  each  rib  a  carver  has  surfaced  with  fruit, 


ALL    THINGS  SHALL   PASS  AWAY.          477 

With  flowers  and  lovers,  that  play  on  the  lute. 
How  the  shapes  run  to  flowers,   the  flowers  to 

shapes, 

A  profusion  like  that  which  from  music  escapes. 
They  are  yours;  no,  not  money,  the  thought  is  a 

crime; 
Will  she  come  with  the  carvings  to  see  me  some 

time? 

Yet  what  does  it  matter,  we  surely  expect 
Resurrection  of  all  things,  at  least,  in  effect. 
Again,  what  is  sturdy  in  oak  I  shall  see, 
And  the  scent  of  the  sandal  apart  from  the  tree. 
There's  a  thought,  is  it  mine?     Did  I  get  it  else- 
where? 

Pure  forms  and  pure  sense  are  themselves  over 
there. 


ALL  THINGS   SHALL   PASS   AWAY. 

By  THEODORE  TILTON,  Journalist,  Orator,  Lecturer. 
1835,  New  York. 

OXCE  in  Persia  ruled  a  king 
Who  upon  his  signet  ring 
'Graved  a  motto  true  and  wise, 
Which,  when  held  before  his  eyes, 
Gave  him  counsel  at  a  glance 
Fit  for  any  change  or  chance. 
Solemn  words,  and  these  were  they: 
"  Even  this  shall  pass  away." 


4?8          ALL    THINGS  SHALL  PASS  AWAY. 

Trains  of  camels  through  the  sand 
Brought  him  gems  from  Samarcand; 
Fleets  of  galleys  through  the  seas 
Brought  him  pearls  to  rival  these, 
Yet  he  counted  little  gain 
Treasures  of  the  mine  or  main. 
"  Wealth  may  come,  but  not  to  stay; 
Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

'Mid  the  revels  of  his  court, 
In  the  zenith  of  his  sport, 
When  the  palms  of  all  his  guests 
Burned  with  clapping  at  his  jests, 
He,  amid  his  figs  and  wine, 
Cried :  "  Oh !  precious  friends  of  mine, 
Pleasure  comes,  but  not  to  stay — 
Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

Fighting  in  a  furious  field, 
Once  a  javelin  pierced  his  shield, 
Soldiers  with  a  loud  lament 
Bore  him  bleeding  to  his  tent. 
Groaning,  from  his  wounded  side, 
"  Pain  is  hard  to  bear,"  he  cried. 
"  But,  with  patience,  day  by  day, 
Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

Towering  in  the  public  square, 
Twenty  cubits  in  the  air, 
Rose  his  statue  grand  in  stone; 
And  the  king  disguised,  unknown, 
Gazing  on  his  sculptured  name, 


THE  BALLAD   OF   TITUS  LAB  I  EN  US.         479 

Asked  himself:  "  And  what  is  fame? 
Fame  is  but  a  slow  decay — 
Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

Struck  with  palsy,  sere  and  old, 
Standing  at  the  gates  of  gold, 
Spake  he  this,  in  dying  breath: 
"  Life  is  done,  and  what  is  death?  " 
Then,  in  answer  to  the  king, 
Fell  a  sunbeam  on  the  ring, 
Answering,  with  its  heavenly  ray: 
"  Even  death  shall  pass  away." 


THE   BALLAD   OF  TITUS   LABIENUS. 

By  LAURA  E.  RICHARDS.     From  the  Youth's  Companion. 

Now  Titus  Labienus 

Was  stationed  on  a  hill. 
He  sacrificed  to  Janus, 

Then  stood  up  stark  and  still. 
He  stood  and  gazed  before  him 

The  best  part  of  a  week; 
Then,  as  if  anguish  tore  him, 

Did  Labienus  speak. 

"  O  hearken,  mighty  Caesar! 

O  Caius  Julius  C., 
It  really  seems  to  me,  sir, 

Things  aren't  as  they  should  be. 


480        THE  BALLAD   OF    T/TUS  LABI  EN  US. 

I've  looked  into  the  future, 
I've  gazed  beyond  the  years, 

And  as  I'm  not  a  butcher, 
My  heart  is  wrung  to  tears. 

"  All  Gaul  it  is  divided 

In -parts  one,  two,  and  three, 
And  bravely  you  and  I  did 

In  Britain  o'er  the  sea. 
In  savage  wilds  the  Teuton 

Has  felt  your  hand  of  steel, 
Proud  Rome  you've  set  your  boot  on, 

And  ground  it  'neath  your  heel. 

"  But  looking  down  the  ages, 

There  springs  into  my  ken 
A  land  not  in  your  pages, 

A  land  of  coming  men. 
I  would  that  it  were  handier! 

'Tis  far  across  the  sea; 
Tis  Yankeedoodledandia, 

The  land  that  is  to  be. 

"  A  land  of  stately  cities, 

A  land  of  peace  and  truth  ; 
But  oh!  the  thousand  pities! 

A  land  of  weeping  youth. 
A  land  of  school  and  college, 

Where  youths  and  maidens  go 
A-seeking  after  knowledge, 

But  seeking  it  in  woe. 


THE  BALLAD    OF    TITUS  LABI  EN  US. 

"  I  hear  the  young  men  groaning! 

I  see  the  maidens  fair, 
With  sighs  and  bitter  moaning, 

Tearing  their  long  fair  hair, 
And  through  the  smoke  of  Janus 

Their  cry  comes  sad  and  shrill, 
'  O  Titus  Labienus, 

Come  down  from  off  that  hill! 

"  '  For  centuries  you've  stood  there, 

And  gazed  upon  the  Swiss ; 
Yet  never  have  withstood  there 

An  enemy  like  this, 
The  misery  of  seeking, 

The  agony  of  doubt 
Of  who  on  earth  is  speaking, 

And  what  'tis  all  about. 

"  '  Now  he  had  planned  an  action, 

And  brought  his  forces  round; 
But — well,  there  rose  a  faction, 

And  ran  the  thing  aground, 
And — their  offense  was  heinous, 

Yet  Caesar  had  his  will; 
And  Titus  Labienus 

Was  stationed  on  a  hill. 

"  '  Then  the  Helvetii  rallied, 

To  save  themselves  from  wrack, 

And  from  the  towns  they  sallied, 
And  drove  the  Romans  back. 


482        THE  BALLAD  OF   TITUS  LAblENUS. 

The  land  was  quite  mountainous, 
Yet  they  were  put  to  flight; 

And  Titus  Labienus 

Was  stationed  on  a  height. 

"  '  Then  he  himself  advised  them 

Upon  the  rear  to  fall: 
But  Dumnorix  surprised  them 

And  sounded  a  recall. 
Quoth  he,  "The  gods  sustain  us! 

These  ills  we'll  still  surmount !  " 
And  Titus  Labienus 

Was  stationed  on  a  mount.' 

"  Thus  comes  the  cry  to  hand  here 

Across  the  western  sea, 
From  Yankeedoodledandia, 

The  land  that  is  to  be. 
My  hrirt  is  wrung  with  sorrow; 

Hot  springs  the  pitying  tear. 
O  Julius  C,  to-morrow, 

Let  me  get  down  from  here ! 

"  Oh,  send  me  to  the  valley! 

Oh,  send  me  to  the  town! 
Bid  me  rebuff  the  sally, 

Or  cut  the  stragglers  down! 
Send  me  once  more  to  battle 

With  Vercingetorix! 
I'll  drive  his  Gallic  cattle, 

And  stop  his  Gallic  tricks. 


THE   SKEE-RACE. 

"  Oh !  sooner  shall  my  legion 

Around  my  standard  fall; 
In  grim  Helvetic  region, 

Or  in  '  galumphing  '  Gaul; 
Sooner  the  foe  enchain  us, 

Sooner  our  lifeblood  spill, 
Than  Titus  Labienus 

Stand  longer  on  the  hill !  " 


THE  SKEE-RACE.* 

HJALMAR  HJORTH  BovESEN,  Novelist,  Teacher.  B.  1848, 
Norway  ;  d.  1895,  New  York. 

An  extract  from  his  novel,  "  Gunnar"  published  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

THE  winter  is  pathless  in  the  distant  valleys  of 
Norway,  and  it  would  be  hard  to  live  there  if  it  were 
not  for  the  skees.  Therefore  ministers,  judges, 
and  other  officers  of  the  government  do  all  in  their 
power  to  encourage  the  use  of  skees,  and  often  hold 
races,  at  which  the  best  runner  is  rewarded  with  a 
fine  bear-rifle  or  some  other  valuable  prize.  The 
judge  of  our  valley  was  himself  a  good  sportsman, 
and  liked  to  see  the  young  lads  quick  on  their  feet 
and  firm  on  their  legs.  This  winter  he  had  ap- 
pointed a  skee-race  to  take  place  on  the  steep  hill 

*  Skees,  or  s&z'er,  are  a  peculiar  kind  of  snow-shoes,  gen- 
erally from  six  to  ten  feet  long,  but  only  a  few  inches 
broad. 


484  THE   SKEE-RACE. 

near  his  house,  and  had  invited  all  the  young  men 
in  the  parish  to  contend.  The  rifle  he  was  to  give 
himself,  and  it  was  of  a  new  and  very  superior  kind. 
In  the  evening  there  was  to  be  a  dance  in  the  large 
court-hall,  and  the  lad  who  took  the  prize  was  to 
have  the  right  of  choice  among  all  the  maidens, 
gardman's  or  houseman's  daughter,  and  to  open 
the  dance. 

The  judge  had  a  fine  and  large  estate,  the  next 
east  of  Henjum;  his  fields  gently  sloped  from  the 
buildings  down  toward  the  fjord,  but  behind  the 
mansion  they  took  a  sudden  rise  toward  the  moun- 
tains. The  slope  was  steep  and  rough,  and  fre- 
quently broken  by  wood-piles  and  fences;  and  the 
track  in  which  the  skee-runners  were  to  test  their 
skill  was  intentionally  laid  over  the  roughest  part 
of  the  slope  and  over  every  possible  obstacle;  for 
a  fence  or  a  wood-pile  made  what  is  called  "  a  good 
jump." 

It  was  about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The 
bright  moonshine  made  the  snow-covered  ground 
sparkle  as  if  sprinkled  with  numberless  stars,  and 
the  restless  aurora  spread  its  glimmering  blades  of 
light  like  an  immense  heaven-reaching  fan.  Now 
it  circled  the  heavens  from  the  east  to  the  western 
glaciers,  now  it  folded  itself  up  into  one  single, 
luminous,  quivering  blade,  and  now  again  it  sud- 
denly swept  along  the  horizon,  so  that  you  seemed 
to  feel  the  cold,  fresh  waft  of  the  air  in  your  face. 
The  peasants  say  that  the  aurora  has  to  fan  the 
moon  and  the  stars  to  make  them  blaze  higher,  as 


THE   SA'EE-KACE.  485 

at  this  season  they  must  serve  in  place  of  the  sun. 
Here  the  extremes  of  nature  meet;  never  was  light 
brighter  than  here,  neither  has  that  place  been 
found  where  darkness  is  blacker.  But  this  evening 
it  \vas  all  light;  the  frost  was  hard  as  flint  and  clear 
as  crystal.  From  twenty  to  thirty  young  lads,  with 
their  staves  and  skees  on  their  shoulders,  were 
gathered  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  about  double 
the  number  of  young  girls  were  standing  in  little 
groups  as  spectators. 

The  umpires  of  the  race  were  the  judge  and  his 
neighbor,  Atle  Henjum.  The  runners  were  num- 
bered, first  the  gardman's  sons,  beginning  with 
Lars  Henjum,  then  the  housemen's  sons.  The 
prize  should  belong  to  him  who  could  go  over  the 
track  the  greatest  number  of  times  without  falling; 
grace  in  running  and  independence  of  the  staff 
were  also  to  be  taken  into  consideration.  "  All 
ready,  boys!  "  cried  the  judge;  and  the  racers  but- 
toned their  jackets  up  to  the  neck,  pulled  their  fur- 
brimmed  caps  down  over  their  ears,  and  climbed 
up  through  the  deep  snow  to  the  crest  of  the  hill. 
Having  reached  it,  they  looked  quite  small  from 
the  place  where  the  spectators  were  standing;  for 
the  hillside  was  nearly  four  hundred  feet  high,  and 
so  steep  that  its  white  surface,  when  seen  from  a 
distance,  appeared  very  nearly  like  a  perpendicular 
wall.  The  forest  stood  tall  and  grave  in  the  moon- 
shine, with  its  dark  outline  on  both  sides  marking 
the  skee-track;  there  were,  at  proper  intervals,  four 
high  "  jumps,"  in  which  it  would  take  more  than 


486  THE   SKEE-RACE. 

ordinarily  strong  legs  to  keep  their  footing.  When 
all  preparations  were  finished,  the  judge  pulled  out 
his  watch  and  notebook,  tied  his  red  silk  handker- 
chief to  the  end  of  his  cane,  and  waved  it  thrice. 
Then  something  dark  was  seen  gliding  down  over 
the  glittering  field  of  snow;  the  nearer  it  came,  the 
swifter  it  ran;  now  it  touched  the  ground,  now 
again  it  seemed  to  shoot  through  the  air,  like  an 
arrow  sent  forth  from  a  well-stretched  bow-string. 
In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  it  was  past  and  nearly 
out  of  sight  down  in  the  valley. 

"Hurrah!  Well  done!"  cried  the  judge. 
"  Heaven  be  praised,  we  have  men  in  the  valley  yet ! 
Truly,  I  half  feared  that  the  lad  might  not  be  found 
who  could  keep  his  footing  in  my  neck-breaking 
track." 

Now  one  after  another  tried ;  but  some  fell  in  the 
first,  some  in  the  second  jump,  and  single  skees  and 
broken  staves  shooting  down  the  track  told  the 
spectators  of  the  failures.  Some,  discouraged  by 
the  ill-luck  of  the  most  renowned  runners  in  the 
parish,  gave  up  without  trying.  At  last  there  was 
but  one  left,  and  that  was  Gunnar  Henjumhei.  All 
stood  waiting  for  him  with  breathless  interest,  for 
upon  him  depended  the  issue  of  the  race.  At 
length  he  started.  Something  like  a  drifting  cloud 
was  seen  far  up  between  the  snow-hooded  pine 
trees.  As  it  came  nearer  the  shape  of  a  man  could 
be  distinguished  in  the  drift. 

A  mighty  hurrah  rang  from  mountain  to  moun- 
tain. Gunnar  came  marching  up  the  hillside,  all 


THE   SfCEE-RACE.  487 

covered  with  snow,  and  looking  like  a  wandering 
snow-image;  his  skees  he  had  flung  over  his 
shoulders.  All  the  young  people  flocked  round 
him  with  cheers  and  greetings;  .  .  .  and  the  prize 
was  awarded  to  Gunnar. 


CLASSIFIED    INDEX. 


I. 

DESCRIPTIVE. 

AUTHOR 

A  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  NORTH 

SEA,  ....    Joseph  C.  Powell,  . 

BE  TRUE,       ....     Robert  Collyer, 

CHILDREN'S  RIGHTS,      .        .     Kate  D.  W.  Riggs, 

COUNTRY  LIFE,     .        .        .     Robert  G.  Ingersoll, 

GARETH,         ....     Alfred  Tennyson, 

MY  GREAT  AUNT'S  PORTRAIT,    Anonymous, 

LIFE  ON  THE  MOON, 

THE  BELL,     .... 

THE  FIELD  OF  CULLODEN,     . 

THE  FISHERMAN'S  HUT, 

THE    FRAGRANT  TIMBER   OF 
HER  FAN, 

THE  MINUET, 

THE  NATURE  OF  TRUC  ELO- 
QUENCE,    .... 

THE  PRAIRIE  FIRE, 

THE  QUEEN'S  YEAR, 

THE  SKEE  RACE, 

THE     WANDERER'S     NIGHT 
SONG 

VICTORIA,      ....    Alfred  Austin, 
489 


Herbert  A.  Howe, 
Benjamin  F.  Taylor, 
William  Winter,  . 
Charles  T.  Brooks, 

Henry  Hanby  Hay, 
Mary  Mapes  Dodge, 

Daniel  Webster,     . 

C.   W.  Hall,    . 

I.  N.  F.  (N.  Y.  Tribune),  309 

Hjalmar  H.  Boyesen,     .  483 

Thos.  C.  Porter  (Goethe},  253 
•     36 


PAGE 

•  471 
.  152 
.  228 

•  37 
.  86 

•  19 
.  272 
.  422 

•  389 
.  292 

473 
i 

.  61 

•  332 


49°  CLASSIFIED  INDEX. 

II. 
DRAMATIC. 

AUTHOR  PAGE 

AN  UNKNOWN  HERO,   .        .    Ernest  L.  Bog  art,  .  112 

BRIER  ROSE,          .        .        .     Hjalmar  H.  Boyesen,  .     99 

DAVID  SHAW,  HERO,     .        .    James  Buck  ham,    .  .     28 
FIVE  MINUTES  WITH  A  MAD 

DOG W.  Pocklington,    .  .  233 

HERVE  RIEL,         .        .        .     Robert  Browning,  .  405 

LONDON  HOUSE  TOPS,            .     E.  Buhver  Lytton,  .  175 

MONA'S  WATERS,   .        .        .     Anonymous,    .        .  .49 

NATHAN   HALE,     .        .        .    Francis  M.  Finch,  .  189 
THE     ANGELS     OF      BUENA 

VISTA John  G.  Whittier,  .  273 

THE  ATLANTIC  CABLE,           .    James  Thomas  Fields,  .    44 
THE  BALLAD  OF  EAST  AND 

WEST,  ....  Rudy  ard  Kipling,  .  92 
THE  BATTLE  OF  GERMAN- 
TOWN,  ....  George  Lippard,  .  .  364 
THE  CARDINAL'S  SOLILOQUY,  E.  Bulwer  Lytton,  .  58 
THE  COLONEL'S  STORY,  .  Robert  C.  Rogers,  .  226 
THE  DROP  OF  WATER,  .  Harry  Stackpole,  .  no 
THE  FIGHT  OF  PASO  DEL 

MAR,         ....     Bayard  Taylor,     .  .130 

THE  GLADIATOR,'           .        .    Anonymous,            .  .  458 

THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SCOTS,     W.  E.  Aytoun,       .  .417 
THE  LIGHT  ON  DEAD  MAN'S 

BAR,          ....     Eben  E.  Rexford,  .  146 

THE  NEW  SOUTH,         .        .     Henry  W.  Grady,  .  119 

THE  RISING  IN  1776,    .        .     Thomas  B.  Read,    .  .184 
THE  UNKNOWN  SPEAKER,      .     Anonymous,    ...     83 

III. 

HUMOROUS. 

A  DIFFICULT  PROBLEM,          .     C.  W.  Thurston,    .  .  238 

EGO  ET  ECHO,      .        .        .    John  Godfrey  Saxe,  .     25 

MOUSE  HUNTING,           .        .     Mary  A.  Dodge,    .  .     97 


CLASSIFIED  INDEX.  49 l 

AUTHOR  PAGE 

MY  SISTER  HAS  A  BEAU,     .     Roy  F.  Greene,  .        .  324 

SIR  CUPID,     .        .        .        .    F.  E.  Weatherly,  .  338 
THE      BALLAD      OF     TITUS 

LABIENUS,         .        .        .    Laura  E.  Richards,  .  479 

THE  "  BEST  ROOM,"      .        .     O.   W.  Holmes,  .        .    46 

THE  THIRTY-NINE  LOVERS,    London  Graphic,  .        .  216 


HUMOROUS,  IN  DIALECT. 

CASE  OF  Go  HANG,        .        .  Anonymous,    .        .        .  258 
"  LITTLE  OKPHANT  ANNIE,"  James  W.  Riley,     .        .  55 
MR.    HAINES'    ABLE    ARGU- 
MENT   Recited  by  Col.  E.B. Hay,  254 

MUCKLE  MOUTH  MEG,          .  Robert  Browning,         .  138 

NEHUCHADNEZZAR,          .        .  Irwin  Russell,        .         .  358 

TOPSY,           ....  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  3 


IV. 
JUVENILE. 

A  BRAVE  LITTLE  GIRL,        .  Anonymous,    .        .  .  252 

DON'T  GIVE  UP,     .        .        .  Phcebe  Cary,  .        .  .135 

DOROTHY'S  MUSTN'TS,   .        .  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  186 
DOWN  IN  THE  STRAWBERRY 

BED,        ....  Clinton  Scollard,   .  .  301 

HER  GRANDPA,      .        .        .  Charles  D.  Stewart,  .  352 

HER  MAJESTY,      '.        .        .  Edgar  Wade  Abbot,  ,  391 

IN  THE  KING'S  GARDENS,     .  Abbie  F.  Brown,    .  .315 

LITTLE  BLUE  RIBBONS,         .  Henry  A.  Dobson,  .     32 

LULLABY,       ....  Thomas  Davidson,  .  257 

.ONE,  Two,  THREE  !     .        .  Henry    Cuyler  Bunner,  297 
THE     LITTLE    GIRL     THAT 

GREW  UP,        .        .        .  Anonymous,     .        .  .  362 

THE  WONDERFUL    WEAVER,  Anonymous,     .        .  .  262 


492 


CLASSIFIED  INDEX. 


V. 

NATIONAL  HOLIDAYS. 
(a)  ARBOR  DAY. 

FERN  SONG,  .        .        .    John  B.  Tabb, 

THE  EARTH'S   FIRST  MERCY,    John  Ruskin, 
WHO  PLANTS  A  TREE,          .    Lucy  Larcom, 

(b)  FOURTH  OF  JULY    (See  Patriotic), 
(c)  MEMORIAL  DAY. 


ADDRESS    AT     GETTYSBURG, 
ARLINGTON,    .... 
DECORATION   DAY, 
DECORATION   DAY, 
MEMORIAL  DAY  ADDRESS,    . 
THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE, 
THE  MEANING  OF  VICTORY, 
THE  NATION'S  DEAD,    . 
Two  COLORS, 


384 
468 
180 


Abraham  Lincoln,  .  207 
fames  A.  Gar  field,  .  427 
Hezekiah  Butterworth,  249 
Susie  M.  Best,  .  .465 
W.  Jennings  Bryan,  .  187 
Richard  Watson  Gilder,  304 
Charles  Devens,  .  .  463 
Anonymous,  .  .  .  236 
Recited  by  Col.E.B.  Hay,  260 


(d)  WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY    (See  Patriotic). 


VI. 

NATURE. 


AN  OCTOBER  MORNING, 

DISCONTENT, 

NATURE,         .... 

ROUND,          .... 

THE  MARYLAND  YELLOW- 
THROAT,  .... 

THE  THRUSH'S  SONG,   . 

WHEN  THE  BLOOM  is  ON 
THE  HEATHER, 


R.  D.  Blackmore,  .  .    53 

Anonymous,     .        .  .  425 

Edward  E-verett,   .  .  250 

Charles  Dickens,    .  .140 

Henry   Van  Dyke,  .  311 

W.  Macgillivray,  .  213 

Peter  Grant,  .  .212 


CLASSIFIED  INDEX.  493 

VII. 
(a)  ORATORICAL. 

AUTHOR  PAGE 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN,  .  .  M.  W.  Sttyker,  .  .  106 
ARBITRATION  AND  CIVILIZA- 
TION, ....  Sir  Charles  Russell,  .  220 
A  RETROSPECT,  .  .  .  Henry  Watterson,  .  395 
CHRISTIAN  CITIZENSHIP,  .  Wendell  P  Ml  lips,  .  181 
DECLARATION  OF  RIGHTS,  .  Henry  Grattan,  .  .  280 
HIGHER  EDUCATION  FOR 

WOMEN,    ....  Chauncey  M.  Depew,  .     70 

LABOR,  .....  Thomas  Carlyle,     .  .     65 

MORAL   LAW   FOR  NATIONS,  John  Bright,           .  .  453 

NATIONAL  LIFE,    .         .        .  Rufus  Choate,        .  .136 

OPPORTUNITY  TO  LABOR,      .  Thomas  Brackett  Reed,  210 

PEACE, Charles  Sumner,    .  .  202 

PUBLIC  OPINION,  .  .  .  Wendell  Phillips,  .  127 
TARIFF  REFORM,  .  .  William  L.  Wilson,  .  335 
THE  AGE  OF  IMPROVEMENT,  Daniel  Webster,  .  .  162 
THE  BATTLE  OF  BENNINGTON,  Edward  J.  Phelps,  .  263 
THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONU- 
MENT, ....  Louis  Kossuth,  .  .  392 
THE  CONSTITUTION,  .  .  W.  W.  Henry,  .  .  30 
THE  PURITANS,  .  .  .  Herman  L.  Wayland,  .  326 
THE  REFORMER,  .  .  .  Horace  Greeley,  .  .  434 
THE  TEACHING  OF  THE  COL- 
LEGES, ....  Seth  Low,  .  .  .  322 
Two  VOICES,  .  .  .  David  J.  Brewer,  ,  295 
WHAT  is  A  MINORITY?  .  John  B.  Gough,  .  ,  67 
WOMAN'S  RIGHTS,  .  .  George  W.  Curtis,  .  26 
ZENOBIA'S  DEFENSE,  .  .  William  Ware,  .  .  89 

(6)  ORATORICAL  AND   EULOGISTIC. 

DANIEL  WEBSTER,          .        .  George  F.  Hoar,     .  .  412 

•GRANT  AT   AI-POMATTOX,      .  Eugene  H.  Levy,   .  .17 
GRANT,   THE    SOLDIER    AND 

STATESMAN,       .        .        ."  William  McKinley,  .  141 


494  CLASSIFIED  INDEX. 

AUTHOR  PAGE 

THE  FAITH  OF  WASHINGTON,    Frederic  R.  Coudert,  .  299 

THE  HERO-PRESIDENT,         .    Horace  Porter,       .  .  340 

THE  MARTYR-SPY,        .        .     Charles  D.  Warner,  .  243 
THE  MONUMENT  OF  WILLIAM 

PENN,      .        .        .        .    Robert  J.  Burdette,  .  400 

VIII. 

PATHETIC. 
A  CHRISTMAS  CAMP  ON  THE 

SAN  GABR'EL,  .        .        .     Amelia  E.  Barr,    .  .217 

A  COURT  LADY,   .        .        .    E.  B.  Browning,  .  123 

A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ,        .     Adelaide  A.  Procter,  .  371 

AN  ORDER  FOR  A  PICTURE,    .     Alice  Cary,              .  .    62 

AT  THE  BARRICADE,     .        .     Victor  M.  Hugo,   .  .  410 

DAISY, Emily  Warren,      .  .    66 

EUTHANASIA,          .        .        .    Margaret  J,  Preston,  .  344 

FATHER'S  VOICE,   .        .        .    Anonymous,    .        .  .451 

His  MOTHER'S  SONG,    .        .    Anonymous,    .        .  .  161 

JIM Nora  Perry,  ,        .  .  205 

LITTLE  BOY  BLUE,        .        .    Eugene  Field,        .  .75 

O  CAPTAIN  !  MY  CAPTAIN,     .      Walt  Whitman,    .  .     68 
ONE     OF      GOD'S      LITTLE 

HEROES,            .        .        .    Margaret  J.  Preston,  .  345 

OUR   HOMEMAKER,        .        .    A.  D.  T.  Whitney,  .  267 

OVER  THE  CROSSING,    .        .    Anonymous,     .        .  .  164 

POOR-HOUSE  NAN,        .        .     Lucy  M.  Blinn,      .  .  169 
POSITIVELY  THE  LAST  PER- 
FORMANCE,    .            .        .    Recited  by  Col.E.B.  Hay,  286 

THE  BOY  OF  THE  HOUSE,    .    Jean  Blewett,         .  .455 

THE  RELIEF  OF  LUCKNOW,    .    Robert  T.  S.  Lowell,  .  368 

IX. 
PATRIOTIC. 

AMERICAN  NATIONALITY,      .    Rufus  Choate,         .  .158 

AMERICAN  PATRIOTISM,        .    Horace  Porter,       .  .  330 

CHORUS  OF  ISLANDERS,         .    Alfred  Austin,       .  .    15 


CLASSIFIED   INDEX. 


495 


COLUMBIA,      .... 

COLUMBIA'S  BANNER,     . 

ENGLAND  AND  HER  COLO- 
NIES, .... 

LIBERTY  AND  UNION,    . 

MARMARA,      .... 

Xo\v  OR  NEVER,    . 

OUR  COUNTRY, 

OUR  COUNTRY, 

PATRIOTISM, 

PATRIOT  SONS  OF  PATRIOT 
SIRES,  .... 

PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE, 

THE  BLUE  AND  GRAY, 

THE  COLLEGE  AND  THE  NA- 
TION, .... 

THE  GLORIOUS  CONSTITUTION, 

THE  HOPE  OF  THE  NATION, 

THE  LONE  STAR  OF  CUBA,  . 

THE  LOVE  OF  HOME,   . 

THE  MAN  WITHOUT  A 
COUNTRY, 

THE  NASHVILLE  EXPOSITION, 

PH£  NATIONAL  FLAG, 

THE  NATIONAL  HYMN, 

THE  NEW  AMERICANISM, 

THE  NEW  PATRIOTISM, 

THE  SPARTANS'  MARCH, 

WASHINGTON, 

WASHINGTON, 

WASHINGTON  AND  THE  NA- 
TION, .... 

WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY,     . 


Edward  Chapman,  .  435 

Edna  Dean  Procter,  .318 

Edmund  Burke,     .  .     47 

Daniel  Webster,     .  .  466 

Clara  Barton,        .  .     38 

O.  W.  Holmes,        .  .  394 

Benjamin  Harrison,  .  247 

/.  G.    Whittier,      ,  .  241 

Hannah  More,        .  .  145 

Samuel  Francis  Smith,  .  387 

H.   W.  Longfellow,  .     78 

Frances  E.   Willard,  .  302 

Graver  Cleveland,  .  360 

Daniel  Webster,     .  .  376 

J.  C.  Schurman,      .  .  316 

David  Graham  A  dee,  .  200 

Henry  W.  Grady,  .  214 

Edward  Everett  Hale,   443 

William  Me  Kin  ley,  .     13 
Henry  Ward  Beecher,     132 

Janet  E.  H.  Richards,  .  194 

Henry   Watterson,  .     41 
Richard  Watson  Gilder,  291 

F.  D.  Hemans,        .  .  356 

Eliza  Cook,     .        .  -353 

John  Paul  Bocock,  .     43 

William  McKinley,  .  277 

M.  E.  Sangster,     .  .     74 


496  CLASSIFIED  INDEX. 

X. 

(a)  REFLECTIVE  AND  DESCRIPTIVE. 


AUTHOR 

PAGE 

AMERICANISM, 

Theodore  Roosevelt, 

.    268 

A  SONG  OF  THE  CAMP, 

Bayard  Taylor, 

•    415 

CLOSE  TO  NINETY, 

/.  H.  Bryant, 

.  118 

CONSIDER, 

rvT 

LIBERTY,        ... 

E.  M.  Thomas, 

yi 
•  432 

LIBERTY, 

Tohn  Hav 

LOYALTY  TO  TRUTH,    . 

Anna  H.  Shaw, 

•  449 
•  437 

MATER  AMABILIS, 

Emma  Lazarus,     . 

•  439 

MY  RIGHTS, 

Sarah  C.  Woolsey 

("Susan  Coolidge  "  ), 

•  385 

THE  HAPPIEST  TIME  IN  LIFE, 

Richard  Salter  Starrs, 

•  450 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  CASTLE, 

Anonymous,     . 

•   195 

THE  NEW  WOMAN, 

E.  Matheson, 

.  246 

THE  SAND-PIPER, 

Celia  Thaxter, 

'.  246 

THE  SHELL, 

Alfred  Tennyson,  . 

.  4^9 

THE   TENDENCIES    OF   SELF- 

GOVERNMENT, 

Lyman  Abbott, 

.     76 

THOUGH  HE  SLAY, 

Albion  W.  Tour  gee, 

.  402 

THREE   DAYS   IN   THE   LIFE 

OF  COLUMBUS, 

Delavigne, 

.  346 

WHAT  is  WORTH  WHILE?    . 

Anna  R.  Lindsay, 

•  239 

WHEN     THE     Cows     COME 

HOME,       .... 

Agnes  E.  Mitchell, 

•328 

WOMAN  AS  FRIEND, 

John  Lord, 

•      J*U 

•  153 

WOMAN  IN  POLITICS,     . 

J.  Ellen  Foster, 

.  314 

(d)  REFLECTIVE  AND  PHILOSOPHICAL. 

ALL    THINGS    SHALL     PASS 

AWAY,       .... 

Theodore  Til  ton,    . 

.  477 

EDUCATION,   .... 

John  Ruskin, 

.   167 

GRADUATION, 

Phillips  Brooks, 

•  349 

IMAGINATION  AND  FANCY,     . 

Charles  C.  E-verett, 

.  446 

INTERNATIONAL  GOOD  Wn.i., 

Ne-w  York  Tribune, 

•  430 

CLASSIFIED   INDEX. 


497 


AUTHOR  PAGE 

LONGING,        ....    James  Russell  Lowell,  .  467 


SELF-DEPENDENCE, 
TEMPERED,     . 

THANATOPSIS, 


Mat  (hew  Arnold,  .  470 

Sarah  C.   Woolsey 

("  Susan  Coolidge  "),  445 
William   C.  Bryant,      .  116 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS,     Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  209 


THE  WISEST  FOOL, 
To  A  SKELETON, 


Eva  Lovett, 
Anonymous, 


192 
178 


APRIL'S  FOOLS, 

AUNT  TABITHA,     .        .        . 

LUCINDA'S  FAN,     . 

MY  DELFTWARE  MAID, 

THE  CANE-BOTTOM'D  CHAIR, 

THE  TELL-TALE,   . 


XI. 

(a)  SENTIMENTAL. 

.    Mrs.  A.  Gidding s  Park,  283 
.        .    Anonymous,    .        .        .231 
.     Frank  Lebby  Slant  on,    .  313 
Ralph  Alton,         .        .441 
William  M.  Thackeray,  461 
Anonymous,    .        .        .  398 


(b)  SENTIMENTAL  AND  PATHETIC. 

A    DOCTOR    OF    THE     OLD 

SCHOOL,    ....    Dr.  John  Watson 

("  Ian  Maclaren"), 

GINEVRA,        ....     Samuel  Rogers, 
THE  NIGHT  WATCH,     .        .     Francois  E.  J.  Coppet, 
"  UNCLE  TODD,"   .        .        .    Isabel  A.  Mallon,  . 


33 
155 
379 

21 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Abbott,  Lyman,  76 
Abbot,  Edgar  Wade,  391 
Adee,  David  Graham,  200 
Alton,  Ralph,  441 
Arkansaw  Traveller,  254 
Arnold,  Matthew,  470 
Austin,  Alfred,  15,33 
Aytoun,    William    Edmon- 
stoune,  418 

Barr,  Amelia  Edith,  217 
Barton,  Clara,  38 
Beecher,  Henry  Ward,  132 
Best,  Susie  M.,  465 
Blackmore,    Richard    Dod- 

dridge,  53 
Blewett,  Jean,  455 
Blinn,  Lucy  M.,  169 
Bocock,  John  Paul,  43 
Bogart,  Ernest  Ludlow,  112 
Boyesen,    Hjalmar   Hjorth, 

99.  483 

Brewer,  David  Josiah,  295 
Bright,  John,  453 
Brooks,    Charles    Timothy, 

292 

Brooks,  Phillips,  349 
Brown,  Abbie  P.,  315 
Browning,    Elizabeth    Bar- 
rett, 123 

Browning,  Robert,  138,  405 
Bryant,  John  Howard,  118 
Bryant,  William  Cullen,  116 
Bryan,    William    Jennings, 
187 


Buckham,  James,  28 
Bunner,  Henry  Cuyler,  297 
Burdette,  Robert  Jones,  400 
Burke,  Edmund,  47 
Butterworth,  Hezekiah,  249 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  65 
Cary,  Alice,  62 
Gary,  Phoebe,  135 
Chapman,  Edward,  435 
Choate,  Rufus,  136,  158 
Cleveland,  Grover,  360 
Collyer,  Robert,  152 
Cook,  Eliza,  353 
Coppee,    Frangois  Edouard 

Joachim, 380 
Coudert,  Frederic  R.,  299 
Curtis,  George  William,  26 

Davidson,  Thomas,  257 

Delavigne,  346 

Depew,  Chauncey  Mitchell, 

70 

Devens,  Charles,  463 
Dickens,  Charles,  140 
Dobson,  Henry  Austin,  32 
Dodge,  Mary  Abigail  ("Gail 

Hamilton  "),  97 
Dodge,  Mary  Mapes,  i 

Everett,  Charles  Carroll,  446 
Everett,  Edward,  250 

Field,  Eugene,  75 
Fields,  James  Thomas,  44 


500 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Finch,  Francis  Miles,  189 
Foster,  J.  Ellen,  314 

Garfield,  James  Abram,  426 
Gilder,     Richard     Watson, 

291,  304 
Goethe,  253 
Gough,  John  Bartholomew, 

6? 
Grady,     Henry     Woodfen, 

119,  214 

Grant,  Peter,  212 
Grattan,  Henry,  280 
Greeley,  Horace,  434 
Greene,  Roy  Farrell,  324 

Hale,  Edward  Everett,  442 
Hall,  C.  W.,  332 
Harrison,  Benjamin,  247 
Hay,    Edwin    B.,   254,   260, 

286 

Hay,  Henry  Hanby,  473 
Hay,  John,  449 
Hemans,  Felicia  Dorothea, 

356 

Henry,  William  Wirt,  30 
Hoar,  George  Frisbie,  412 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  46, 

209,  394 

Howe,  Herbert  A.,  272 
Hugo,  Victor  Marie,  410 

I.  N.  F.,  309 

Ingersoll,  Robert  Green,  37 

Kipling,  Rudyard,  92 
Kossuth,  Louis,  392 

Larcom,  Lucy,  180 
Lazarus,  Emma,  439 
Levy,  Eugene  H.,  17 
Lincoln,  Abraham,  207 
Lindsay,   Anna  Robertson, 

239 

Lippard,  George,  364 
London  Graphic,  216 
Longfellow,    Henry    Wads- 
worth,  78 


Lord,  John,  153 

Lovett,  Eva,  192 

Low,  Seth,  322 

Lowell,       Robert       Traill 

Spence,  368 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  467 
Lytton,  Edward  Buhver,  58, 

175 

Macgillivray,  W. ,  213 
Mallon,  Isabel  A.,  21 
Matheson,  E.,  246 
McKinley,  William,  13,  141, 

277 

Mitchell,  Agnes  E.,  328 
More,  Hannah,  145 

New    York     Tribune ',    309, 
430 

Park,  Mrs.  A.  Giddings,  283 
Perry,  Nora,  205 
Phelps,  Edward  John,  263 
Phillips,  Wendell,  127,  181 
Pocklington,  W.,  233 
Porter,  Horace,  330,  340 
Porter,  Thomas  Conrad,  253 
Powell,  Joseph  C.,  471 
Preston,  Margaret  Junkin, 

344-  345 

Procter,  Adelaide  Anne,  371 
Procter,  Edna  Dean,  318 

Read,    Thomas    Buchanan, 

184 

Reed,  Thomas  Brackett,  210 
Rexford,  Eben  Eugene,  146 
Richards,  Janet  E.  H.,  194 
Richards,  Laura  E.,  479 
Riggs,  Kate  Douglas  Wig- 
gin,  228 

Riley,  James  Whitcomb,  55 
Rogers,    Robert   Cameron, 

226 

Rogers,  Samuel,  155 
Roosevelt,  Theodore,  268 
Rossetti,     Christina     Geor- 
gina,  91 


1XDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


501 


Ruskin,  John,  167,  468 
Russell,  Charles,  220 
Russell,  Invin,  358 

Sangster,    Margaret    Eliza- 
beth, 74 

Saxe,  John  Godfrey,  25 
Schurman,     Jacob     Gould, 

316 

Scollard,  Clinton,  301 
Shaw,  Anna  H.,  437 
Smith,  Samuel  Francis,  387 
Stackpole,  Harry,  no 
Stanton,  Frank  Lebby,  313 
Stewart,  Charles  D.,  352 
Storrs,  Richard  Salter,  450 
Stowe,  Harriet  Beecher,  3 
Stryker,  Melancthon  Wool- 

sey,  106 
Sumner,  Charles,  202 

Tabb,  John  B.,  384 
Taylor,  Bayard,  130,  415 
Taylor,  Benjamin  Franklin, 

422 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  84,  429 
Thackeray,    William  Make- 
peace, 461 
Thaxter,  Celia,  270 
Thomas,     Edith      Matilda, 

432 

Thurston,  Charlotte  W.,  238 
Tilton,  Theodore,  477 


Tourgee,   Albion  Winegar, 
402 

Van  Dyke,  Henry,  311 

Ware,  William,  89 
Warner,    Charles     Dudley, 

243 

Warren,  Emily,  66 
Watson,  John  ("  Ian  Mac- 

laren  " ),  33 

Watterson,  Henry,  41,  395 
Wayland,  Heman   Lincoln, 

326 
Webster,    Daniel,    61,    162, 

376,  466 
Weatherly,    Frederick     E., 

338 

Whitman,  Walt,  68 
Whitney,    Adeline     Dutton 

Train,  267 
Whittier,    John    Greenleaf, 

241.  273 

Wilcox,  Ella  Wheeler,  186 
Willard,  Frances  Elizabeth, 

302 

Wilson,  William  Lyne,  335 
Winter,  William,  389 
Woolsey,  Sarah   Chauncey, 

("  Susan  Coolidge  "),  385, 

445 

Ziorfs  Herald,  362 


College  Men's 
3=minute  Declamations 

$1.00— CLOTH,  381  PAGES,  WITH  INDEX— $1.00 

Here  at  last  is  a  volume  containing  just  what  college 
students  have  been  calling  for  time  out  of  mind,  but 
never  could  find — something  besides  the  old  selections, 
which,  though  once  inspiring,  now  fail  to  thrill  the 
audience,  because  declaimed  to  death!  Live  topics  pre- 
sented by  live  men  1  Full  of  vitality  for  prize  speaking. 

Such  is  the  matter  with  which  this  volume  abounds. 
*Io  mention  a  few  names — each  speaking  in  his  well- 
known  style  and  characteristic  vein  : 

Chauncey  M.  Depew  President  Eliot  (Harvard) 

Abram  S.  Hewitt  George  Parsons  Lathrop 

Carl  Schurz  Bishop  Potter 

William  E.  Gladstone  Sir  Charles  Russell 

Edward  J.  Phelps  President  Carter  ( Williams) 

Benjamin  Harrison  T.  De  Witt  Talmage 

Grover  Cleveland  Ex-Pres.  White  (Cornell) 

General  Horace  Porter  Rev.  Newman  Smyth 

Doctor  Storrs  Emiiio  Castelar 

Here,  too,  sound  the  familiar  voices  of  George  William  Curtis, 
Lowell,  Blaine,  Phillips  Biooks,  Beecher.  Garfield,  Disraeli,  Bryant, 
Grady,  and  Choate.  Poets  also: — Longfellow,  Holmes,  Tennyson, 
Byron,  Whittier,  Schiller,  Shelley,  Hood,  and  others. 

More  than  a  hundred  other  authors  besides !  We  have  not  space 
to  enumerate.  But  the  selections  from  them  are  all  just  the  thing. 
And  all  the  selections  are  brief. 

In  addition  to  a  perspicuous  list  of  contents,  the  volume  contains  a  com- 
plete general  index  by  titles  and  authors  ;  and  also  a  separate  index  ot 
authors,  thus  enabling  one  who  remembers  only  the  title  to  find  readily  the 
author,  or  -who  recalls  only  the  author  to  find  just  as  readily  all  oj  his 
selections.  . 

Another  invaluable  feature  .-—Preceding  each  selection  are  given, 
so  far  as  ascertainable,  the  vocation,  the  residence,  and  the  dates  of 
birth  and  death  of  the  author ;  and  the  occasion  to  which  we  owe  the 
oration,  or  address,  or  poem. 

Like  the  companion  volume,  College  Girls'  Reading's,  this  work  con- 
tains  many  "  puces  "  suitable  both  for  girls  and  boys,  and  the  two  books 
may  well  sU-nd  side  by  side  upon  the  shelf  of  every  student  and  every 
teacher,  evir  ready  with  some  selection  that  is  sure  to  please,  and  exactly 
•aited  to  the  speaker  and  to  the  occasion. 

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CONTENTS  COLLEGE  MEN'S  DECLAMATIONS.          I 

CLOTH — Price  $1.00  Postpaid— 382  PAGES. 

The  Two  Spies,  Andre  and  Hale Chauncey  M.  Depew 

Stavoren Heltn  S.  Conant 

Two  Cities Hetman  Grimm 

The  Stranger's  Alms Henry  Abbey 

The  Coronation  of  Anne  Boleyn James  Anthony  Ftoude 

Cromwell  on  the  Death  of  Charles  I  he  First.  Sir  Edward  Bitlwer  Lytton 

The  Inspiration  of  Sacrifice .James  A.  Garfield 

The  Twins  Robert  Browning 

Hector  and  Achilles .  .       Homer 

An  Appeal  to  the  People John  Bright 

Keenan's  Charge George  P.  Lathrop 

The  Coyote     Mark  Twain 

The  Olympic  Crown     Sir  Edward  Buhner  Lytton 

The  Mission  Tea  Party Emma  Huntington  Nason 

Mercy        Shakespeare 

M  irituri  Salutamus Henry  W.  Longfellow 

Public  Opinion.   ..  ......    .       Daniel  Webster 

The  Destruction  of  Pompeii Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton 

Abraham  Lincoln James  Russell  Lowell 

Martin  Luther          Rev.  Charles  P.  Kiaulh 

The  Brooklyn  Bridge Ab>amS.  Heu'itt 

The  Minute  Men  of  '75 George  Will  am  Cut  (is 

Poor  Little  Joe     ....David  L.  Proudfit 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers Felicia  D.  Hemans 

Geology James  D.  Dana 

South  Carolina  and  Massachusetts Daniel  Webster 

The  Monster  Cannon Victor  Hugo 

Our  Country     Benjamin  Harrison 

The  Leper Nathaniel  P.  Willis 

The  Silent  Warriors Anonymous 

Ratisbon  ...    Robert  Browning 

O'd  Faiths  in  New  Light    Rev.  Newman  Smyth 

The  High  Tide  at  Gettysburg Will  H.  Thomfs  n 

Richelieu  and  France Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton 

Farewell  to  England Edward  J.  Phelps 

The  Mysteries  of  Life Chateaubriand 

The  Return  of  Regulus Elijah  Kellogg 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  Alfred  Tennyson 

The  First  View  of  the  Heavens Ormsby  M.  Mitchel 

The  Death-3ed  of  Benedict  Arnold George  Lippard 

The  Eve  of  Waterloo Lord  Byron 

A  Eulogy  on  John  Bright William  E.  Gladstone 

Cardinal  Wolsey Shakespeare 

The  Home     Henry  W.  Grady 

The  Dedication  of  Gettysburg  Cemetery Abraham  Lincoln 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow. John  Greenleaf  Whittier 

Pain  in  a  Pleasure  Boat Thomas  Hood 

The  Centennial  of  1876  William  M.  Evarts 

ArupH  Winkelried  James  Montgomery 

Christianity  the  Law  of  the  Land Daniel  Webster 

Raphael's  Account  of  the  Creation John  Milton 

Tyre,  Venice  and  England   John  Ru.'kin 

Our  Flag  at  Apia   Annie  Branson  K '.ng 

Defence  of  the  Irish  Party Sir  Charles  Russell 

Das  Licht  des  Auges  Schiller 

The  <chools  and  Colleges  of  Our  Country Pres.  Chart'  s  W.  Eliot 

The  Battle  of  Ivry Lord  Macaiilav 

The  Typical  Dutchman  . . . : , Rev.  Henty  Van  Dyke 


CONTENTS  COLLEGE  MEN'S  DECLAMATIONS 


The  Narrowness  of  Specialties Sir  Edward  Bulw er  Lyttort 

The  Apple  Dumplings  and  George  the  Third     Dr.  John  WolcM 

Alfred  the  Great  to  His  Men James  She*  idan  Knoules 

New  England Josiah  Quincy 

Old  Braddock Anonymous 

The  Opening  of  the  Brooklyn  Biidge Abram  S.  Hewitt 

Burial  of  bir  John  Moore Charles  Wolfe 

The  Monarchy  of  Csesar Theodor  Mommsen 

What's  Hallowed  Ground?     Thomas  Campbell 

Reply  of  Mr.  Pitt  to  Sir  Robert  Walpole Wilhum  Put 

The  "Grand  Advance" Frank  H.  Castaway 

An  Autobiography     J\ev.  Phillips  Brooks 

The  Passions H 'illiam  C allies 

Westminster  Abbey Washington  Jrvit.g 

Laugh  and  the  World  Laughs  with  You ...  Anonymous 

Alp's  Decision Loidbyion 

The  Cloud Percy  B.  Shelley 

Decisive  Integrity William  Mirt 

Marathon ....         ...  Sir  Edward  Buhue    I.ylton 

The  American  Experiment  of  Self-Government        ..Edwaid  Everett 

Equestrian  Courtship        Thomas  Hood 

The  Spartans  and  the  Pilgrims Rvfus  Choate 

The  Finding  of  the  Lyre James  Russell  l.cweil 

The  Reign  of  Napoleon Lanu.itint' 

The  Boys Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 

The  Washington  Monument Robert  C.  Unit 'hi  op 

Wounded J.  W.  11  'atson 

American  Rights  .    Joseph  Warren 

The  Constitutional  Convention  of  1787  .     Channccy  M.  Depeiv 

The  Burghers  of  Calais     Emily  A.  Braddock 

The  Book  and  the  Building Rev.  Richaid  S.  Starrs 

The  Declaration  of  Independence ..   Catl  Sdiurz 

The  People  of  the  United  States Graver  Cleveland 

The  Hand  .*..   ...Rev.  T.  De  Witt  Talmage 

Sir  Walter's  Honor Margat  et  J.  I'l  r  ton 

American  Battle  Flags CailSchurz 

The  Chariot  Race ; Sophocles 

The  Revolutionary  Alarm Gioige  Bancroft 

The  Sacredness  of  Work Thomas  Cailyle 

Flodden  Field  ...         Sir  Walter  Scott 

Death  of  Garfield  James  G.  Blaine 

Lord  Chatham  Against  the  American  War William  Pitt 

Rienzi  to  the  Romans   ...  .Mary  Russell  Hhtford 

The  Death  of  Moses John  Rnskin 

The  Noblest  Public  Virtue....    Henry  Clay 

The  Pond     .  Dr.  fohn  Byrom 

The  Victories  of  Peace  ...         Charles  Sumner 

Irish  Aliens  and  English  Victories Richard  L.  Sheil 

Warren's  Address John  Pierpont 

The  First  View  of  Mexico  William  H.  Prescott 

The  Royalty  of  Virtue Henry  C.  Potter 

Marco  Bozzaris Fitz-Greene  Halleck 

The  Future  of  America Danifl  Webster 

Guilty  or  Not  Guilty Anonymous 

Toussaint  L'Ou  verture Wendell  Phil,  ips 

Nattons  and  Humanity George  William  Curtis 

The  Lost  Colors Maty  A.  Bart 

Freedom  or  Slavery Patrick  Henry 

Abraham  Lincoln «... Emilio  Castelar 


CONTENTS  COLLEGE  MEN'S  DECLAMATIONS. 


Driving  Home  the  Cows....   Kate  Putnam  Osgood 

The  Sentiment  of  Reverence President  Franklin  Carter 

The  Trial  of  Archery Virgil 

The  Hero  of  the  Gun   Margaret  I.  Preston 

Chief  Justice  Marshall     Edward  J.  Phelps 

The  First  Battle  of  the  Revolution Anonymous 

Last  Inaugural  of  I  incoin 

Ultima  Vcnlas         Washington  Gladden 

The  Army  of  the  Potomac        Chauncey  AI  Depew 

John  Wycliffeand  the  Bible Rev.  Richard  S  Starrs 

The  Fool's  Prayer        Eduard  R.  Sill 

Palladium  Matthew  Arnold 

The  Invisible  Heroes Henry  Watd  Beecher 

Scotland .       Edmund  Flafg 

Non  Omnis  Moriar  ...   Horace 

Crispian's  Day        .   .         Shakespeare 

The  Queen  of  France  and  the  Spirit  of  Chivalry Edmund  Burke 

The  Necessity  of  Independence         Samuel  Adams 

The  Trenton's  Cheer  to  the  Calliope Anonymous 

The  Battle Schiller 

The  First  Predicted  Eclipse Ormsby  M.  Mitchel 

That  Gray,  Cold  Christmas  Day Hezekiah  BultetU'orth 

Herv6  Riel ....Robert  Browning 

The  Dome  of  the  Republic Andrew  D.  H  kite 

St.  Martin  and  the  Beggar Margaret  E.  Sangster 

The  Greatness  of  the  Poet George  William  C  uitis 

The  Highland  Stranger  Sir  Walter  Scott 

The  Black  Horse  and  his  Rider ' George  Lippai  d 

The  Shell     Alfred  Tennyson 

Youthful  Valor Tyrtarus 

Permanency  of  Empire Wendell  Phillips 

A  Morning  Landscape Sir  Walter  Scott 

Courage        General  Horace  Porter 

Jerusalem  by  Moonlight Lord  Beaconsjield 

Ode  to  Duty  William  Words^ui  th 

Ctesar  Rodney's  Ride .    Elbridge  S.  Bi  ooks 

The  Last  Night  of  Pompeii   Sir  Edtvard  Buhner  L\tton 

The  Palmetto  and  the  Pine Manly  H' Pike 

The  Two  Streams  ot  History Rev.  Charles  S.  Thompson 

Fahius  to  A-lmilius ....Livy 

The  Puritans         Lord  Alacaulay 

The  Petrified  Fern        ..  Mary  B.  Branch 

The  Wonders  of  the  Dawn ; Edward  Everett 

A  Retrospect Richai  d  D.  Hubbard 

The  Sovereignty  of  the  People Edward  J.  Phelps 

The  Lights  of  Lawrence Ernest  W.  Shurtleff 

Decoration  Day  Address  at  Arlington   James  A.  Garjield 

Character  of  Justice Richard  Brmsley  Sheridan 

American  History  Gulian  C  Verplaink 

The  Prayer  of  Agassiz John  Greenleaf  Whittier 

The  Present  Age   Victor  Hi-go 

The  Temper  and  Aim  of  the  Scholar William  E  Gladsto   f 

Opportunity IdwaidR.Sill 

The  Supreme  Court  and  the  Constitution   Heniy  Hitchcock 

The  Pride  of  Battery  "  B" Frank  H.  Gassaiiay 

The  Maible  Queen Susan  Coolidf.  e 

A"  Boy's  Remonstrance  .     Charles,  P-  >  >y 

The  Toadstool Oliver  Wendell  H  I    es 

\iidependenceBell Anonymous 


CONTENTS  COLLEGE  MEN'S  DECLAMATIONS. 


In  School-Days     John  Greenleaf  Whittier 

A  Story  of  the  Barefoot  Boy  J.  T.  Trowbndge 

The  Drummer  Boy ....         Anonymous 

The  Spinner Mrs.  Clara  D.  Bat,  s 

Trifles J.  T.  Trowbndge 

At  Play     Anonymous 

To  mmybob's  Thanksgiving  Vision Anna  M.  J  'rait 

The  Lost  Child Anonymous 

The  Nightingale  and  Glow- Worm William  Cowpcr 

The  Fringed  Gentian William  Cullen  Bryant 

Playing  Bo-Peep  with  the  Star Anonymous 

The  Brook Alfred  Ttnnyson 

Freaks  of  the  Frost Hannah  Flagg  Gould 

The  Fire-Fly.... Susan  Coolidge 

The  Kitten  of  the  Regiment .James  Buckham 

The  Shining  Little  House  Atiotnmous 

The  Council  Held  by  the  Rats  La.  Fontaine 

The  Motherless  Turkeys Marian  Douvlas 

The  Children's  flour Henry  II'.  Lonrfellow 

The  Will  and  the  Way John  ( '-.  Saxe 

Mercy's  Reply Anonymous 


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The  models  here — every  one  a  complete  address 
— are  not  composed  by  the  compiler  to  show  what 
he  would  say  if  he  should  happen  to  be  called  on  for 
a  class  poem,  or  an  ivy  song;  a  valedictory,  or  an 
oration ;  a  response  to  a  toast,  an  essay,  a  recitation,  or 
what-not.  Not  at  all!  But  every  one  of  the  "efforts" 
in  this  book  is  real — in  the  sense  that  it  is  what  some 
one  did  do  on  the  particular  occasion  when  he  actu- 
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b) 
f) 


Contents  of  "  Commencement  Paris/' 

J.    Introduction  to  Commencement  Parts. 

2.  The  Orator  and  the  Oration. 

(a)  The  Orator. 

(3)  The  Oration. 

(c)    The  Parts  of  the  Oration. 

3.  Commencement  Parts. 

(/  )  A  Latin  Salutatory.  De  Nostro  Cum  Aliis  Civitatibus 

Agendi  Modo. 
(2)  Orations. 

(a)  American  Ideals. 
Culture  and  Service. 

Education  as  Related  to  Civic  Prosperity. 
Hebraism  and  Culture. 
le)    Marc  Antony. 
(/)  Modern  Knighthood. 
(£•)  The  Negro  and  the  South. 
(A)  The  Decisive  Battle  of  the  Rebellion. 
(»»    The  University  and  True  Patriotism. 
(/)  The  Discipline  of  Life  and  Character. 
(/£)  The  Liberalistic  Temper. 
(/)    The  Spirit  that  Should  Animate. 
(»/)  Reveience  Due  from  the  Old  to  the  Young 
(j>)  Appropriate  Subjects  for  the  Oration  (1-136). 
(./)  Valedictories. 

a)  "  Perduret  atque  Valeat "  (Latin). 
Service. 

For  a  Dental  College. 
I)  For  a  College. 
(e)    For  a  School. 
(J)   For  a  College. 
(g)  Good  Day. 

LIBERALISM. 
(5)  Mixed  Valedictory  and  Oration  :  Catholicity 

Qass  Day  Exercises. 
(  /  )   Introduction . 
(.?)  Class  Poems. 

(a)  O  Years  You  Have  Vanished, 

(b)  The  Breath  of  the  Spirit- 

(c)  Home. 

(d)  A  Vision. 
(<?)   Alma  Mater. 

(j)   President's  Address. 
(^)   Salutatory. 


Class  Day  Exercises  (continucifj. 

(5)  Dux's  Speech. 

(6)  Ivy  Oration. 

(7)  Class  Song. 

(8)  Ivy  Oration. 

(9)  Class  Will. 
(/o)  Ivy  Oration. 


(//)  Ivy  Poem. 
(») 


Ivy  Song. 

(/j)  Class  Oration — The  Old  and  New. 
(A/)  Washington's  Birthday  Oration, 
(/j)  Presentation  Oration. 
(/  j)  Class  Oration — Abraham  Lincoln. 
(if)  Class  Mottoes  (1-42). 

5«    The  Composition  and  Essay. 
(/)  Introductory  Suggestions. 

(a)   Model  Outline  of  Composition 

Sl>)   Model  Outline  of  Essay. 
c)    Brief  Essay. 
(.2)  Compositions. 

(a)  Autumn. 

(b)  What  Makes  the  Sky  Blue? 

(c)  The  Beauties  of  Nature. 
(if)  Winter  Leaves. 

(j}  Essays. 

(a)  Beatrice.     (Character  Study.) 

(/>)    Independent  Character.     (Descriptive.) 
(f)    Ruskin's  "  Ethics  of  the  Dust."  (Critical.) 
(</)   Edward  Rowl  and  Sill.     (Literary.) 
(e)    Intellectual  Improvement,  an  Aid  to  the  Tm. 

agination.      (Philosophical  Disputation.) 
(/)  The  Survival  of  the  Fittest  in   Literature. 

(Literary  Discussion.) 
(?•)    "Una."     (Analytical.) 
(//)  Thomas  Chatterton.     (Prize  College  Essay.) 
(t)    Kipling's  Religion.     (Literary.) 
(  / )    The  Reaction  Against  the  Classics.  (Colloquy. ) 
(/•)  Memory's  Message.     (Dedicatory.) 
(/)    Manual  Training  and    Intellectual  Develop- 
ment.    (Normal  School  Prize  Essay.) 
(»/)  True  Nobility.     (A  College  Prize  Essay.) 
(^)  Subjects  for  Composition. 
(,/)    Narrative  (1-35). 

(b)  Descriptive  (1-55). 
fal  Themes  for  Essays  (1-53). 


6*    After-Dinner  Speaking. 

(/)   Introductory  Suggestions. 

(.?)  Aa  Address  of  Welcome  at  an  A^mni  Dinner  (In 
Honor  of  the  College  President). 


(3)  Response  to  a  Toast, 

(4)  Response  to  a  Toast, 

man. ' ' 

(5)  Response  to  a  Toast, 

(6)  Response  to  a  Toast, 

(7)  Response  to  a  Toast, 


'  Yale  and  Princeton." 

'  The  Puritan  and  the  Dutch. 

'  The  Plain  People." 

'  Woman. ' ' 

'A   Business  Man's   Political 


Oblijations." 

(8)  Response  to  a  Toast,  "The  Sovereignty  of  the  United 

States." 

(9)  Response  to  a  Toast,  "  Recollection  the  Strongest  In- 

fluence." 

10)  Response  to  a  Toast,  "  The  Future  of  the  Nation." 
//)  An  After-Dinner  Story. 
12)  A  List  of  Toasts  (1-40). 


7.    Flag  Day. 

(/)   Introduction. 

(r)  Recitation  for  a  Boy  or  Girl. 

8')  Recitation — Our  Country. 
r)  Recitation — The  Stars  and  Stripes, 
(j)  Address — Old  Glory. 
(6)  Address — The  Voice  of  the  Flag. 


8.    Words  of  the  National  Airs. 

(/)  Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean. 

(.?)  Hail  Columbia. 

(j)  America. 

(  f)  The  F tar-Spangled  Banner. 

(j)  Our  Flag  is  There. 


9.    Speeches  for  National  Holidays. 

(/)   Independence  Day  Address. 

(.?)  Lift  up  Your  Hearts.     (Fourth  of  July.) 

(j)  Lincoln  the  Immortal.     (Lincoln's  Birthday.) 

(4.)  Washington's  Birthday  Address. 

(j)   Washington's  Birthday. 

(6)  Tree  Planting.     (\  Poem  for  Arbor  Day.) 

(7)  Decoration  Day  Address.  * 

(8)  Memorial  Day  Ode — Our  Honored  Dead. 


tO.    Occasional  Addresses, 
(/)   Religious. 

(«)  Growth.  An  Address  before  a  Christian 
Endeavor  Convention. 

(£)  To  be  Kings  among  Men.  A  Chapel  Ad- 
dress by  a  College  President. 

(<r)    The  Culture  of  the  Imagination.     Address  be- 
fore a  Young  Men' s  Christian  Association. 
(2)   Political. 

(a)  The  Cross  of  War.  Delivered  in  the  Con- 
gress of  the  United  States. 

(^)    Heroerof  the  <l  Maine  Disaster."     Delivered 
to  the  National  House  of  Representatives, 
(j)  Social. 

(a)  The  Obligations  of  Wealth.  A  Washington's 
Birthday  Address. 

(3)  An  Address  to  Northern  and  Southern  Vet- 
erans at  Chickamauga. 

(3)    An  Address  before  the  Order  of  Ellis. 

(t-)    A  Poem  for  a  Silver  Wedding. 

(d)  An  Address  at  the  Dedication  of  a  Memorial 

Tablet. 

(<•)    Presentation  of  a  Flag  to  a  Regiment  Depart- 
ing for  War. 
(/)  Presentation   Address    to   a    Foreman   by   a 

Workman. 
[f)   Educational. 

(</)  The  Higher  Education.     An  Address  before 

a  Body  of  Educators. 
.  (b)    Dedication  of  a  School  Building.    An  Address 

of  Welcome. 
(<-)    Wealth   and   Progress.     An   Address  at  the 

Dedication  of  a  Public  Building. 
(</)  An  Address  on  Presenting  the  Keys  of  a  New 

School  Building. 

(e )  An  Address  to  a  School  Graduating  Class  by 

a  Teacher. 

(f)  Remarks  to   a   Graduating   Class  of  Young 

Ladies  b/  a  Visitor. 

(.?•)    An  Address  to  a  Graduating  Class  of  Nurses. 

(A)  Address  to  a  School  Graduating  Class  by  a 
Clergyman. 

(/)    Dedication  of  a  Public  Library. 

(/)  Address  to  a  Graduating  Class  by  a  Financier. 

(/£)  Address  before  an  Educational  Convention. 
Foreign  Influence  upon  American  Uni- 
versity Life. 


JO.    Occasional  Addresses  (continued^. 

(I)    Success  in  Life.     An  Address  before  a  Busi- 
ness College. 

(m)  Address  before  a  College  Graduating  Class. _ 
(»)  Inaugural  Address  of  a  President  of  a  Uni- 
versity. 

(0)   An  Address  on   Receiving    the   Degree   of 
Doctor  of  Laws  from  a  University. 

(f)   The  Presiding  Officer's  Address  at  a  College 
Debate.     , 

(?)  The  Influence  of  the   Great  Teacher.     An 
Address  before  College  Alumni. 

(r)   Response  of  a  College  Professor  to  a  Compli- 
mentary Resolution. 
(f)  Festival  Days. 

(a)  A  Thanksgiving  Speech. 

(b)  A  Thanksgiving  Day  Address. 

(<:)  An  Exercise  Around  the  Christmas  Tree. 
(if)  A  Mock  Menu  for  a  March  Banquet. 

(e)  A  Banquet  Menu. 

(f)  A  Thanksgiving  Song. 
(6)  Miscellaneous  Abstracts. 

(a)  At  the  Dedication  of  a  Hall  of  Science  and 

Art. 

(£)  Response  to  a  Toast,   "  Noblesse  Oblige.    - 
(Phi  Beta  Kappa  Banquet.) 

(c)  Grand  Army  Speech. 


NEW  DIALOGUES  AND  PLAYS 

PRIMARY— INTERMEDIATE— ADVANCED 

Adapted  from  the  popular  works  of  well-known  authors  by 

BINNEY  GUNNISON 

Instructor  in  the  School  of  Expression,  Boston; 
formerly  Instructor  in  Elocution  in  Worcester  Acad- 
emy and  in  the  Brooklyn  Polytechnic  Institute. 

Cloth,  650  Pages         ...         Price,  $1.50 

Too  many  books  of  dialogues  have  been  published  with- 
out any  particular  reference  to  actual  performance  on  plat- 
form or  stage.  There  are  no  suggestions  of  stage  business  ;fc 
the  characters  neither  enter  nor  leave ;  while  the  dialogue 
progresses,  no  one  apparently  moves  or  feels  emotion.  Noth- 
ing is  said  at  the  beginning  of  the  dialogue  to  show  the  situa- 
tion of  the  characters;  no  hints  are  given  as  to  the  part 
about  to  be  played.  In  plays,  as  ordinarily  printed,  there  is 
very  little  to  show  either  character  or  situation — all  must  be 
found  out  by  a  thorough  study  of  the  play.  This  may  be 
well  for  the  careful  student,  but  the  average  amateur  has  no 
time,  and  often  only  little  inclination,  to  peruse  a  whole  play 
or  a  whole  novel  in  order  to  play  a  little  part  in  an  enter- 
tainment. 

Perhaps  the  strongest  feature  of  our  book  is  the  carefully 
prepared  introduction  to  each  dialogue.  Not  only  are  the 
characters  all  named  in  order  of  importance,  but  the  charac- 
teristics, the  costumes,  the  relation  of  one  to  another,  age, 
size,  etc.,  are  all  mentioned.  Most  important  of  all  is  what 
is  called  the  "Situation."  Here  the  facts  necessary  to  a 
clear  comprehension  of  the  dialogue  following  are  given 
very  concisely,  very  briefly,  but,  it  is  hoped,  adequately  for 
the  purpose  in  hand.  The  story  previous  to  the  opening  of 
the  dialogue  is  related ;  the  condition  of  the  characters  at 
the  beginning  of  the  scene  is  stated ;  the  setting  of  the  plat- 
form is  carefully  described. 

There  has  been  no  book  of  dialogues  published  containing 
so  much  of  absolutely  new  material  adapted  from  the  best 
literature  and  gathered  from  the  most  recent  sources — this 
feature  will  be  especially  appreciated. 

May  we  send  you  a  copy  for  inspection  subject  to  your 
approval ? 

HINDS  &  NOBLE 

Publishers  of  3-Minute  Declamations  for  College  Men 
3-Minute  Readings  for  College  Girls,  Handy  Pieces  to  Speak 

Acme  Declaration  Book,  Pros  &  Cons  (Complete  Debates) 

Commencement  Parts  (Orations,  Essays,  Addresses),  Pieces  for  Prize 

Speaking  Contests  (in  press). 

Cooper  Institute  New  York  City 


LIST  OF  CONTENTS 


PRIMARY  DIALOGUES 

Humorous 

Training  the  Ruggleses Kate  Douglas  Wiggin 

Patsy's  Visit Kate  Douglas  Wiggin 

Aunt  Ellen's  Hatchet 

The  New  Baby    . Frances  Hodgson  Burnett 

The  Unburied  Woman 

Playing  Hookey Sophie  May 

Hearsay  .    .        . . 

.Tired  of  Church 

The  Inkstand Sophie  May 

The  Sword Berquin 

Serious 

Fauntleroy  and  the  Earl  ....  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett 

The  Reconciliation Louise  M.  Alcott 

Keeping  House Sophie  May 

Adopt  My  Baby Kate  Douglas  Wiggin 

Selling  the  Image Mrs.  C.  V.  Jamison 

The  Sick  Boy's  Plan 

A  Child's  Love 

A  Manly  Boy 

A  Tiny  Quarrel Sophie  May 

The  Mouse Mrs.  C.   V.  Jamison 

Nell's  Christmas  Stocking J.  L.  Harbour 

Father  Time's  Granddaughters    .    .  Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

INTERMEDIATE  DIALOGUES 

Humorous 

The  Schoolmaster W.  T.  Adams 

A  Confession  of  Love 

Not  Quite John  Poole 

Captain  Kempthorn //.  W.  Longfellow 

The  Restless  Youth 

Testing  the  Suitors 

The  Emperor  and  the  Deserter 

Mike  Gets  a  Job 

The  Stupid  Lover 

Our  Daughter        

His  Own  Pills 

Louis  XIV.  and  His  Minister A.  Conan  Doyle 

The  Challenge Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan 


Serious 

The  Homeless  Old  Man Hall  Caine 

The  Witch  of  Vesuvius Bulwer  Lytton 

His  Enemy's  Honor 

Cleopatra  and  the  Messenger Shakespeare 

The  Bishop's  Silver  Candlesticks     .    .    .    .    .  Victor  Hugo 

The  Peasant  Boy's  Vindication Dimond 

The  Baron  and  the  Jew Walter  Scott 

In  Love  with  His  Wife 

Christian  Forgiveness 

A  Wife  and  a  Home 

Aurelian  and  Zenobia William  Ware 


ADVANCED  DIALOGUES 

Humorous 

The  French  Duel Mark  Twain 

Mrs.  Hardcastle's  Journey Oliver  Goldsmith 

A  Matter  of  Duty Anthony  Hope 

Pride  Against  Pride Westland  Marston 

Tom  and  Roxy Mark  Twain 

A  Disastrous  Announcement Charles  Dickens 

Miss  Judith  Macan Charles  Lever 

Helen  and  Modus Sheridan  Knowles 

Sam  Weller  and  his  Father Charles  Dickens 

Extracting  a  Secret F.  Marion  Crawford 

Open  or  Shut Alfred de  Mussel 

Taming  a  Wife John  J^obin 

The  Prairie  Princesses 

Serious 

The  Suffering  of  Nehushta F.  Marion  Crawford 

"Gentlemen,  the  King!"   • Robert  Barr 

Ben-Hur  and  Iras Lew  Wallace 

Savonarola  and  Lorenzo Alfred  Austin 

Tito's  Armor George  Eliot 

Love  Conquers  Revenge Robert  Byr 

Becket  Saves  Rosamund Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 

The  Princess  and  the  Countess R.  L.  Stevenson 

Queen  Catherine Shakespeare 

Deacon  Brodie Henley  and  Stevenson 

Pizarro  and  Rolla Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan 

Raimond  Released Mrs.  Felicia  Hemans 

Mrs.  Har wood's  Secret Mrs.  M.  0.  W.  Oliphant 

Innocence  Rewarded    .  .  Oliver  Goldsmith 


Pros  and  Cons 

Lf  f  irmativc  and  the  Negative  of  the  Questions  Of  Th 
in  the  form  of 

Complete  Debates 


CLOTH — Price  $1.50  Postpaid — TWELVEMO 

Something  new,  something  practical,  something  up-to-date. 
A  book  that  exactly  fits  into  these  last  years  of  this  wonderful 
last  decade  of  the  passing  century. 

Besides  giving  complete  directions  for  the  organization  and 
the  conduct  of  Debating  Societies  in  accordance  with  parliamen- 
tary procedure,  this  book  in  many  of  its  debates  presents  the 
speakers  as  actually  addressing  their  hearers  from  "  the  floor," 

each  speaker  in  turn  with  his  arguments the  first  speakers 

for  the  affirmative  and  the  negative  in  turn ;  then  the  second 
speakers  in  turn  ;  in  some  cases,  the  third  speakers ;  and  then 
the  summing  up  by  the  leaders. 

The  array  of  arguments  thus  marshalled  constitutes  an  intelli- 
gent and  intelligible  statement  of  every  principle  and  every  fact 
affecting  the  questions  debated,  thus  providing  not  only  an  ex- 
haustive study  of  each  question  enabling  a  thorough  mastery  of  it 
for  knowledge  sake,  but  also  furnishing  a  thoroughly  instructive 
and  decidedly  lively  and  entertaining  program  for  an  evening's 
pleasure  and  profit. 

Among  the  important  topics  discussed  are  the  following : — 
Government  Control,  Immigration. 

Our  Foreign  Policy.  The  License  Question, 

The  Tariff.  The  Suffrage. 

.  The  Currency  Question.      Postage. 

Transportation.  Our  Commercial  Policy. 

And  many  others. 

There  is  also  a  list  of  "  questions"  suitable  for  debate,  several  of 
which  are  "briefly  outlined"  to  assist  the  student  to  prepare  and  to 
deliver  his  own  "  effort" 

Essays  and  orations,  many  of  them  suitable  for  commencement 
parts,  Salutatory  and  Valedictory  addresses,  supplement  the  debates, 
the  whole  providing  for  the  student  at  college  and  the  high  school 
scholar,  the  parent  at  home,  and  the  man  of  affairs,  just  that  equip- 
ment that  one  needs  not  only  for  thinking  out  the  questions  that  every- 
body is  talking  about,  but  for  arguing  them  in  a  convincing  wanner, 

HINDS  &  NOBLE,  Publishers 
4-5-J3-J4  Cooper  Institute  New  York  City 

Schoolbooks  of  ill  publishers  it  one  store 


Contents  of  "Pros  and  Cons." 


SECTION 

I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 


How  to  Organize  a  Society, 
Rules  Governing  Debates, 
Introductory  Observations, 
Political  Economy, 


PAGE 

I 

12 

IS 

24 


Questions  Fully  Discussed  in  the  Affirmative  and  the  Negative. 
V.     Resolved,   That  the  Single  Gold  Standard  Is  for 

the  Best  Interests  of  the  Country,         .         .       28 
VI.     Should  Cuba  be  Annexed  to  the  United  States?       6l 
VII.     Resolved,   That  the  Fear  of  Punishment  Has  a 
Greater  Influence  on  Human  Conduct  than 
Hope  of  Reward,       .....       77 
VIII.     Resolved,   That  the  United  States  should  Adopt 

Penny  Postage,  .....       86 

IX.     Resolved,   That  High  License  Is  the  Best  Means 

of  Checking  Intemperance,         ...       94 
X.     Should  the  Government   of  the   United   States 

Own  and  Control  the  Railroads  ?         .         .     106 
XI.     Should  Hawaii  have  been  Annexed  to  the  U.  S.  ?     122 
XII.     Resolved,     That    Woman    Suffrage    should    Be 
Adopted  by  an  Amendment  to  the  Constitu- 
tion of  the  United  States,     .         .         .         .127 

XIII.  Resolved,    That  the  World  Owes  more  to  Navi- 

gation than  to  Railroads,    -         ...     135 

XIV.  Resolved,  That  the  United  States  should  Build 

and  Control  the  Nicaragua  Canal,      .         .     148 
XV.     Resolved,    That  Tariff  for   Revenue  Only  Is  of 
Greater  Benefit  to  the  People  of  the  United 
States  Than  a  Protective  Tariff,  .         .     160 

XVI.     Resolved,   That  the  Expensive  Social  Entertain- 
ments of  the  Wealthy  Are  of  More  Benefit 
than  Injury  to  the  Country,         .         .         .172 
XVII.     Resolved,    That  the  Hypocrite  I.«  T.  More  Des- 
picable Character  than  the  Liar,  .         .179 
XVIII.     Resolved,    That  the  Government  of  the  United 
States  should   Own  and  Control  the  Tele- 
phone and  Telegraph  Systems,   .         .          .     185 
XIX      Resolved,    That  the   Average   Young    Man  of 
To-day  Has  Greater  Opportunities  to  make 
Life  a  Success  Financially  than  His  Fore- 

fathers, 199 

XX.     Ts  Immigration  Detrimental  to  the  United  States?     206 
XXI.     Are  Large  Dept.  Stores  an  Injury  to  the  Country?     219 


Pros  and  Cons 

Affirmative  and  the  Negative  of  the  Questions  Of  Th 
in  the  form  of 

Complete  Debates 


CLOTH — Price  $1.50  Postpaid — TWELVEMO 

Something  new,  something  practical,  something  up-to-date. 
A  book  that  exactly  fits  into  these  last  years  of  this  wonderful 
last  decade  of  the  passing  century. 

Besides  giving  complete  directions  for  the  organization  and 
the  conduct  of  Debating  Societies  in  accordance  with  parliamen- 
tary procedure,  this  book  in  many  of  its  debates  presents  the 
speakers  as  actually  addressing  their  hearers  from  "  the  floor," 

each  speaker  in  turn  with  his  arguments the  first  speakers 

for  the  affirmative  and  the  negative  in  turn ;  then  the  second 
speakers  in  turn  ;  in  some  cases,  the  third  speakers ;  and  then 
the  summing  up  by  the  leaders. 

The  array  of  arguments  thus  marshalled  constitutes  an  intelli- 
gent and  intelligible  statement  of  every  principle  and  every  fact 
affecting  the  questions  debated,  thus  providing  not  only  an  ex- 
haustive study  of  each  question  enabling  a  thorough  mastery  of  it 
for  knowledge  sake,  but  also  furnishing  a  thoroughly  instructive 
and  decidedly  lively  and  entertaining  program  for  an  evening's 
pleasure  and  profit. 

Among  the  important  topics  discussed  are  the  following : — 
Government  Control,  Immigration. 

Our  Foreign  Policy.  The  License  Question, 

The  Tariff.  The  Suffrage. 

.  The  Currency  Question,      Postage. 

Transportation,  Our  Commercial  Policy. 

And  many  others. 

There  is  also  a  list  of  "  questions"  suitable  for  debate,  several  of 
which  are  "  briefly  outlined,"  to  assist  the  student  to  prepare  and  to 
deliver  his  own  "  effort." 

Essays  and  orations,  many  of  them  suitable  for  commencement 
parts,  Salutatory  and  Valedictory  addresses,  supplement  the  debates, 
the  whole  providing  for  the  student  at  college  and  the  high  school 
scholar,  the  parent  at  home,  and  the  man  of  affairs,  just  that  equip- 
ment that  one  needs  not  only  for  thinking  out  the  questions  that  every- 
body is  talking  about,  but  for  arguing  them  in  a  convincing  wanner. 

HINDS  &  NOBLE,  Publishers 
4^5-J3-J4  Cooper  Institute  New  York  City 

Schoolbooks  of  ill  publisher!  it  one  store 


Contents  of  "Pros  and  Cons." 


SECTION 

I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 


How  to  Organize  a  Society, 
Rules  Governing  Debates, 
Introductory  Observations, 
Political  Economy, 


I'AGE 

I 

12 

IS 

24 


Questions  Fully  Discussed  in  the  Affirmative  and  the  Negative. 
V.     Resolved,   That  the  Single  Gold  Standard  Is  for 

the  Best  Interests  of  the  Country,         .         .       28 
VI.     Should  Cuba  be  Annexed  to  the  United  States?       6l 
VII.     Resolved,   That  the  Fear  of  Punishment  Has  a 
Greater   Influence  on  Human  Conduct  than 
Hope  of  Reward,       .....       77 
VIII.     Resolved,   That  the  United  States  should  Adopt 
Penny  Postage,  ..... 

IX.     Resolved,   That  High  License  Is  the  Best  Means 

of  Checking  Intemperance, 
X.     Should   the  Government    of  the    United   States 

Own  and  Control  the  Railroads  ? 

XI.     Should  Hawaii  have  been  Annexed  to  the  U.  S.  ? 
XII.     Resolved,     That    Woman    Suffrage    should    Be 
Adopted  by  an  Amendment  to  the  Constitu- 
tion of  the  United  States,    .... 

XIII.  Resolved,    That  the  World  Owes  more  to  Navi- 

gation than  to  Railroads,    -         ... 

XIV.  Resolved,  That  the  United  States  should  Build 

and  Control  the  Nicaragua  Canal, 
XV.     Resolved,    That  Tariff  for   Revenue  Only  Is  of 
Greater  Benefit  to  the  People  of  the  United 
States  Than  a  Protective  Tariff", 

XVI.     Resolved,   That  the  Expensive  Social  Entertain- 
ments of  the  Wealthy  Are  of  More  Benefit 
than  Injury  to  the  Country, 

XVII.     Resolved,    That  the  Hypocrite  I.«  T.  More  Des- 
picable Character  than  the  Liar, 

XVIII.     Resolved,    That  the  Government  of  the  United 
States  should   Own  and  Control  the  Tele- 
phone and  Telegraph  Systems,   . 

XIX      Resolved,    That  the   Average   Young    Man  of 
To-day  Has  Greater  Opportunities  to  make 
Life  a  Success  Financially  than  His  Fore- 
fathers,    ....... 

XX.     Ts  Immigration  Detrimental  to  the  United  States? 
XXI.     Are  Large  Dept.  Stores  an  Injury  to  the  Country?     219 


86 


94 

1 06 


127 

135 

148 


160 


172 
179 


185 


199 
206 


tfSCTION  PAGE 

XXII.  Should  Greenbacks  Be  Retired  and  the  Gov- 
ernment Go  Out  of  Its  Present  System 
of  Banking?  .....  232 

XXIII.  Resolved,  That  Our  Present  System  of  Tax- 

ation is  the  Best  that  Can  Be  Devised,     250 

XXIV.  Should  the  President  and  Senate  of  the  U.  S.  be 

Elected  by  Direct  Vote  of  the  People?     258 
XXV.     Resolved,    That   It  Is  Not  Good  Policy  for 
the  Government  of  the  United  States  to 
Establish  a  System  of  Postal  Savings,     286 

Questions  Outlined. 

XXVI.     Resolved,    That  It  is  for  the  Best  Interests 
of  All  the  People  for  the  Government  to 
Own  and  Control  the  Coal  Mines,        .     318 
XXVII.      Resolved,    That  Trusts  and  Monopolies  Are 
a  Positive  Injury  to  the  People  Finan- 
cially,        ......     327 

VXVIII.  Resolved,  That  Cities  should  Own  and  Con- 
trol All  the  Public  Franchises  Now 
Conferred  upon  Corporations,  .  .  337 
XXIX.  Resolved,  That  Education  as  It  Is  Now 
Thrust  upon  our  Youth  Is  Dangerous  to 
Health  and  Good  Government,  .  351 

XXX.     Resolved,    That  National  Banks  should  Be 

Abolished, 358 

XXXI.  Resolved,  That  Bi-metallism  and  Not  Pro- 
tection is  the  Secret  of  Future  Pros- 
perity, ......  366 

Subjects  for  Debate. 
XXXII.     Two  Hundred  and  Fifty  Selected  Topics  for 

Discussion,         .....     376 

Addresses  for  Salutatory,  Valedictory,  and  other  occasions. 

XXXIII.  Oration — Decoration  Day,  .         .         .     401 

XXXIV.  Essay — February  22,           ....     407 
XXXV.     Salutatory— Life, 420 

XXXVI.     Oration— Fourth  of  July 426 

XXXVII.     Valedictory 434 

XXXVIII.     Audress— Christmas  Eve,    ....  440 
XXXIX.     A  Temperance  Address— The  Nickel  Behind 

the  Bar, 444 

XL.     Essay— Coa>t  Defenses,      ....  450 


Fenno's  Science  and  Art  of  Elocution 


I 


Theory  and  Practice  Combined 

The  Science  and  Art  of  Elocution.  Embracing 
a  comprehensive  and  systematic  series  of  exer- 
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as  well  as  for  the  use  of  Readers  and  Speakers 
generally.  By  Frank  S.  Fenno,  A.M.,  F.S.Sc., 
graduate  of  The  National  School  of  Elocution 
and  Oratory,  compiler  of  "Fenno's  Favorites  for 
Reading  and  Speaking,"  author  of  "The  Chart 
of  Elocution, M  "Lectures  on  Elocution,"  etc.,  etc. 
Price,  $1.25. 

Designed  to  be  Used  as  a   Text-book 
and  for  Private  Study 


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